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ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 


By  FREDERIC  S. 

ISHAM 

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w nil    '"^"^ 'K<i«ir^T^ 


Now  when  a  woman,  or  girl  turns  away" 


ALADDIN 
FROM  BROADWAY 


FREDERIC  S.  ISHAM 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

WILLIAM  THACHER  VAN  DRESSER 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright  1913 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company 


PRESS  or 

8BAUNWORTH   &   CO. 

BOOKBINDERS   AND   PRINTERS 

BROOKLVN,   H.  V. 


URU 
> 


But  if  the  husband  give  sentence  of  divorce  to 
her  a  third  time,  saying  "Thou  art  free,"  or  "I 
divorce  you,"  three  times,  it  is  not  lawful  for 
him  to  take  her  back  again,  until  she  shall  have 
married  another  husband  and  been  divorced  by 
that  second  husband.  Then  may  the  first  husband 
remarry  her  whom  he  had  set  from  him  and  no 
blame  shall  attach  to  any  of  them. 

Koran,  Chapter  II,  Verse  226. 


CONTENTS 

eBAFRK  PAGB 

I  A  Casual  E^jcoxwter 1 

II  A  Voice  From  Afar 9 

III  An  Astonishing  Proposition        ....  26 

IV  Light  of  Life .  39 

V  In  the  Garden      .......  60 

VI  The  Surprise         .......  69 

VII  A  Caller 83 

Vlll  An  Interrupted  Honeymoon        ....  103 

IX  In  the  Stable        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  117 

X   At  Amad's    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  128 

XI  The  Summons 142 

XII  A  Very  Holy  Man .159 

XIII  Menacing  Moments 176 

XIV  Captive 192 

XV  The  Cavalcade 204 

XVI  Varying  Fortxwes 216 

XVII  The  Graveyard 231 

XVIII  At  the  Gate 246 

XIX  Near  the  Citadel 260 

XX  An  Old  Acquaintance 276 

XXI  The  Brazier 293 

XXII  OneWay       . 310 

XXXIII  A  Surprise 324 

XXIV  Mary  Carruthers 337 

XXV  The  Mission  Gardens 348 


ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 


ALADDIN  FROM 
BROADWAY 

CHAPTER  I 

X  CASUAL  ENCOUNTER 

DAMASCUS!  "The  Street  that  is  called 
Straight."  A  dervish  sitting  on  his  heels  be- 
fore a  pastry-shop,  his  cloak  Biblical,  of  many  hues. 
Eyes  bold,  reckless,  a  little  famished-looking.  Dark 
handsome  features,  too  young  almost  for  the  beard 
that  shines  like  a  flame  across  the  dun-colored 
caftan.  A  beard,  which  to  the  western  eye  seems 
somewhat  superfluous,  especially  as  it  is  not  natur- 
ally red,  but  has  been  so  dyed  to  proclaim  a  returned 
Mecca  pilgrim.  Beneath  the  rags,  a  lithe  graceful 
figure. 

"Look  at  him,"  said  an  elderly  American  woman 
of  the  conventional  "personally  conducted"  type, 
passing  at  that  moment.  "What  fine  examples  of 
physical  manhood  some  of  these  Mohammedans 
are!" 


2  ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"This  one  looks  as  if  he  might  do  a  Marathon,  or 
one  of  those  long  pole,  high  stunts  our  college  boys 
go  in  for,"  returned  her  companion,  a  pert  Buckeye 
miss. 

"High  stunts,  indeed!  He  looks  to  me  as  if  he 
might  have  been  picked  up  and  transported  from 
some  wild  Afghan  frontier.  Don't  you  think  so. 
Lord  Fitzgerald?" 

The  dervish  gave  a  slight  start,  but  neither  of  the 
ladies  observed.  They  had  turned  to  a  languid, 
spare,  middle-aged  gentleman  who  joined  them  at 
that  moment. 

"I?"  said  this  individual,  adjusting  a  single  eye- 
glass, which  he  focused  on  the  object  of  their  con- 
versation. "Yes,  he  does  look  like  one  of  those  beg- 
gars we  see  in  northern  India,  the  type  our  govern- 
ment enlists  for  soldiers  to  keep  them  from  being 
brigands,  don't  you  know."  He  was  decidedly  face- 
tious about  it. 

"You  mean  you  pay  them  for  not  robbing  you 
and  cutting  your  throats?" 

"Quite  so.  Cheaper  to  make  martial  heroes  of 
them  and  let  them  cut  one  another's  throats.  Can't 
quite  make  this  chap  out,  though."  More  contem- 
platively.   "He  isn't  a  Jat." 


A  CASUAL   ENCOUNTER  3 

For  a  few  minutes  they  stood  there,  until  the  ob- 
ject of  their  regard  turned  deliberately  and  looked  at 
them.  His  eyes  cut  up  and  down  over  the  young 
lady  in  an  almost  insolent  appraising  fashion,  did 
likewise  to  the  older  one,  and  then  passed  to  Lord 
Fitzgerald.  They  took  in  comprehensively  that 
gentleman's  boots,  his  tumed-up  trousers,  the  rough 
tweed  coat  and  the  ultra-smart  tourist  hat.  They 
stared  into  the  single  glass.  For  a  few  moments,  it 
was  a  question  which  would  turn  away  first,  the 
brilliant,  hungry,  albeit  satirical  eyes  of  the  dervish, 
or  the  apathetic  gray  one  behind  the  traditional 
round  "window-pane."  But  it  is  against  all  tradi- 
tion for  any  Britisher  to  let  himself  be  stared  out  of 
countenance,  especially  by  a  "blooming  heathen," 
and  so,  probably,  the  "window-pane"  and  the  gray 
eye  behind  it  would  have  won  in  the  visual  contest, 
had  not  the  guide — mixture  of  Turk,  Greek  and 
what-not — ^a  hodge-podge  from  the  ancient  cauldron 
— ^who  gladly  threw  his  fortunes  with  the  despised 
visitors  from  the  West  whenever  opportunity  of- 
fered, now  created  a  divertisement. 

"These  holy  pilgrims  do  not  like  to  be  stared  at," 
he  observed  in  low  uneasy  tones.  "And  in  Damas- 
cus, especially." 


4  ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"Well,  by  Jove!"  The  Englishman  transferred 
his  stare  to  the  guide.  "That's  good!  A  cat  may 
look  at  a  king,"  he  chuckled,  "but  a  subject  of  the 
king  may  not—  This  is  delicious !  Positively !  By 
Jove!" 

"These  dervishes  are  very  fanatical,"  murmured 
the  hodge-podge  ingratiatingly. 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  he  doesn't  look  very  ferocious," 
interposed  the  younger  woman  airily.  "His  lips 
aren't  at  all  like  a  Mohammedan's.  They're  more 
like  an  American's." 

The  dervish  did  not  stare.  He  seemed  absorbed 
now  in  pious  meditation. 

"Still  I  would  advise — "  And  the  guide  made  a 
motion  as  if  to  draw  them  away.  "The  city  is  most 
disturbed  at  present." 

"Pooh!  We're  not  afraid,  are  we,  aunty?"  said 
the  younger  with  all  the  spirit  of  one  from  the  land 
of  the  free. 

"Not  at  all,  of  course,  my  dear.  Only" —  some- 
what nervously —  "it  is  well  to  be  prudent.  Per- 
haps it  is  for  the  best  that  we  are  leaving  the  city  to- 
night.   All  the  other  tourists  have  gone  except  our- 


A  CASUAL   ENCOUNTER  5 

selves  and  Lord  Fitzgerald  here.  By  the  way,  when 
are  you  leaving,  Lord  Fitzgerald?" 

"Haven't  decided."  Languidly.  "Left  my 
car  at  Balbeek.  My  intention,  you  know,  to  motor 
across  the  desert." 

"Dear  me!"  observed  the  other.  "Aren't  you 
afraid  of  those  wild  Bedouins?  For  my  part,  I 
don't  see  why  people  do  those  risky  things.  Like 
that  young  American  you  were  telling  us  about  last 
night  at  the  hotel,  the  one  you  had  that  ridiculous 
wager  with — " 

"You  mean  Jack  Stanton,  aunty,"  interposed  the 
girl. 

The  dervish  murmured  another  holy  passage.  His 
accents  seemed  rather  vicious  and  he  gripped  harder 
the  big  smooth  beads  of  the  string  most  Moham- 
medans carry.  "As  I  was  going  to  tell  you.  Lord 
Fitzgerald,  last  night  when  we  were  interrupted  by 
that  dragoman,  I  know  all  about  this  Mr.  Stanton 
from  a  chum  of  mine.  Or  rather,  I  know  all  about 
his  love-affair."  The  dervish  fingered  his  beads 
faster.  "His  people  had  family,  were  no  end  of 
swells,  and  all  that,  only  unfortunately,  their  income 


6         ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

was  of  a  diminishing  kind.  To  make  a  long  story 
short,  Jack  Stanton  ultimately  came  in  for  only  a 
paltry  fifty  thousand  and  had  a  lot  of  expensive 
tastes.  Of  course  he  stood  no  chance  at  all  with  the 
girl  in  the  case.  It  is  only  in  novels  the  poor  young 
man  ever  does.  She  married  Archie  Osborne 
whose  father  is  one  of  those  'interlocking  directors' 
and  holds  the  combination  on  half  a  dozen  or  so  of 
our  biggest  trusts.  Fancy  a  poor  man  being  a  rival 
of  the  son  of  an  'interlocker' !  Just  the  same,  when 
she  floated  up  the  aisle,  to  the  Lohengrin  music,  and 
gave  her  hand  to  the  gilded  youth,  I  guess  it  jolted 
Jack  Stanton's  heart  some.  It  must  have  been  about 
that  time  he  made  that  silly  wager  with  you,  Lord 
Fitzgerald.  He  wanted  to  do  something  desperate. 
All  men  do,  under  the  circumstances,"  she  jeered 
flippantly. 

A  half  articulate  sound  broke  from  the  dervish's 
throat.    He  was  growing  more  and  more  impatient. 

"You  say  he  had  but  a  fortune  of  fifty  thousand?" 
observed  Lord  Fitzgerald  more  gravely.  "Then 
I'm  afraid  our  wager  will — " 

"My  Lord — madam — "  The  guide  interrupted 
them  now  imperatively.    The  dervish  had  made  an 


A   CASUAL   ENCOUNTER  7 

abrupt  and  emphatic  movement.  It  might  have  been 
construed  as  a  menacing  one.  "That  dervish — I 
have  been  watching  him —  We  must  really  go, 
or  I  won't  be  answerable.  We  are  disturbing  him, 
and  as  I  said  before,  dervishes  do  not  like  to  be  an- 
noyed while  at  prayer.  Sometimes  they  run  amuck 
and  then — " 

"Quite  right,"  said  the  elder  lady  hurriedly.  "We 
certainly  ought  not  to  stay  here  any  longer.  Just 
look  how  his  eyes  flash !  I  don't  believe  we  should 
even  remain  in  the  streets  of  this  city  any  longer, 
after  all  we  have  heard  about  the  feeling  against 
foreigners.  Some  of  these  other  people,  in  passing, 
have  cast  decidedly  hostile  glances  upon  us." 

"Well,  I  for  one,  don't  believe  there's  going  to  be 
any  trouble,"  observed  the  younger  lady. 

"You  never  can  tell.  Didn't  the  guide-book  say 
they  murdered  five  thousand  Christians  not  so  long 
ago  in  this  very  city?" 

"And  left  them  unburied  in  the  streets!"  Sotto 
voce  from  the  guide. 

"Dear  me!"  The  elder  woman  displayed  symp- 
toms of  greater  nervousness.  "Come,  my  dear!" 
And  linking  her  arm  quickly  in  that  of  the  younger. 


8  ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY, 

the  two  fluttered  away,  out  of  the  street,  and — out 
of  this  story.  Lord  Fitzgerald  lingered  a  moment, 
as  a  matter  of  self  and  national  respect,  then  fol- 
lowed leisurely. 

The  dervish  looked  after  the  party  and  a  word 
that  was  not  Allah  fell  from  his  lips.  Fortunately 
no  one  heard  it. 


CHAPTER  II 

.     A  VOICE  FROM  AFAR 

THE  dervish  soon  resumed  his  posturing.  A 
holy  man,  to  be  consistent,  can  not  bob  his 
body  up  and  down  too  often,  especially  if  he  is  in  a 
busy  street  where  many  may  observe  him.  None  of 
the  complicated  formalities  attendant  upon  the  peti- 
tions to  Allah  and  the  prophet,  escaped  now  this  past- 
master,  but  it  might  have  been  noticed  that  while  his 
lips  murmured  tekheers,  he  kept  one  eye  pretty 
closely  on  the  people.  This  sedulousness,  however, 
could  be  accounted  for  on  natural  grounds.  Re- 
turned pilgrims  are  usually  hungry.  This  one  was 
dusty  and  road-worn;  his  shoes  were  falling  from 
his  feet.  He  might  be  looking  foj  a  benefactor. 
But  though  his  plight  was  apparent,  the  crowd 
seemed  too  busy  for  benevolence. 

From  the  pastry-shop,  however,  a  man  now  came 
and  stood  at  the  door  with  a  cake. 

9 


lo        ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

"Thank  the  lady !  Thank  the  most  gracious  lady 
who  takes  pity  on  your  poverty !"  said  this  person. 

"I  do.  I,  most  unworthy,  humbly  return  thanks," 
answered  the  dervish  eagerly,  whereupon  the  man 
threw  the  cake.  Unfortunately  one  of  the  many 
waiting  dogs  got  it.  Pandemonium  ensued  as  street 
boys  with  sticks  and  stones  set  upon  the  congre- 
gated canines.  Howls  mingled  with  juvenile  yells. 
Innocent  dogs  fared  no  better  than  the  guilty  pil- 
ferer. In  the  midst  of  the  hubbub  she  who  had 
bidden  the  proprietor  throw  the  cake  walked  out  of 
the  shop.  She  was  slender  and  richly  robed.  Her 
tezyereh,  or  street  attire,  was  of  silk,  an  exquisite 
light  rose,  so  that  her  coming  seemed  to  brighten  the 
thoroughfare.  Amid  squalor  and  wretchedness — 
ragged  hawkers,  carriers  and  venders  of  a  hundred 
inconsequential  articles — she  shone  like  a  flower. 
Her  face,  of  course,  was  concealed  by  the  snowy 
whiteness  of  the  hurko,  or  face  veil,  but  as  she 
passed,  with  supple  swaying  grace,  the  dervish 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  eyes. 

An  instant  they  seemed  to  hold  him,  although 
he  was  more  or  less  of  a  woman-hater  by  profession 
and  perhaps   inclination.     "By  the  beard   of  the 


A  VOICE  FROM  AFAR  ii 

prophet,  but  the  lady  has  soulful  eyes !"  he  muttered 
in  choicest  Arabic.  Then  a  scoffing  light  came  into 
his  own.  "No  doubt,  too,  she  knows  it,"  he  added, 
and  began  again  more  resolutely  to  pray.  But  he 
was  suffered  to  continue  his  praiseworthy  vocation 
for  only  a  few  moments.  He,  ragged  waif  of  the 
roads,  was  occupying  space  demanded  by  others  of 
the  high  and  opulent  class. 

"Way  there!  Way  there!"  peremptory  voices 
called  out,  and  two  superb  camels,  of  lordly  height, 
bearing  a  spacious  litter  between  them,  came  along. 
At  a  command  the  beasts,  bedecked  with  bright  trap- 
pings, knelt  while  an  attendant  in  fine  livery  and  of 
autocratic  bearing,  denoting  the  importance  of  those 
he  served,  opened  the  door  of  the  litter.  The  lady, 
who  had  attracted  the  dervish's  attention,  was  about 
to  get  in,  when  one  of  the  camels,  annoyed  by  the 
snapping  of  a  miserable  little  yellow  dog,  made  an 
angry  movement  and  started  to  rise. 

The  litter  swayed ;  the  lady  with  a  foot  on  the  step 
was  thrown  backward  and  would  have  been  hurled 
to  the  ground,  but  at  that  moment  the  dervish  sprang 
forward  and  caught  her.  His  arms,  which  had  been 
extended  empty-handed  toward  Mecca,  now  clasped 


12        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

a  fair  sample,  or  example,  of  despised  femininity. 
Nay,  more — a  warm  breath  fanned  his  cheek,  while 
those  eyes  that  had  forced  his  attention  a  few  mo- 
ments before  now  met  his  own  fully,  albeit  in  star- 
tled fashion,  affording  him  abundant  opportunity  to 
fortify  or  amend  that  first  impression  of  them. 
They  were  more  than  "soulful";  they  were  big, 
luminous,  haughty,  passionate,  poetic.  One  roman- 
tically inclined  would  have  searched  for  a  few  more 
adjectives  to  encompass  their  attraction.  They  could 
talk  and  tell  all  manner  of  things.  Allah  (Blessed 
be  whose  Name)  gave  them  license  to  practise  magic 
or  diablerie;  to  disturb  saints,  or  sinners;  to  teach 
cynical  young  dervishes,  accustomed  to  solitary 
dances,  that  solo  whirls  are  but  lonesome  business  on 
life's  barren  sands. 

For  a  moment,  which  takes  somewhat  long  in 
the  telling,  they — beggar  and  beautiful  lady,  brought 
thus  together  by  bizarre  fate — ^made  an  interesting 
if  unconventional  picture  on  that  ancient  street  of 
strange  contrasts.  Possibly  he  prolonged  the  situa- 
tion longer  than  the  sterner  exigencies — ^to  be  merely 
helpful! — demanded,  while  a  light  that  was  not 
wholly  holy  or  strictly  pious  began  to  shine  from  his 


A   VOICE  FROM   AFAR  13 

somewhat  cynical  young  gaze.  And  well  it  had  ex- 
cuse for  so  doing,  for  the  lady's  eyes  alone  were  not 
all  this  fortunate  anchorite  of  the  desert  was  per- 
mitted to  contemplate !  Her  veil  had  been  partially 
swept  aside,  thus  affording  an  unexpected  and  most 
illumining  glimpse  of  a  countenance,  young,  oval, 
perfect.  It  dazzled  the  gaze  accustomed  to  unpre- 
possessing pilgrims'  faces  and  bleak  prospects. 

The  dervish  forgot  his  prophet ;  his  lips  on  a  sud- 
den awoke  to  a  different  kind  of  litany.  The  adan 
he  dared  utter  now  sounded  from  the  minaret  of  his 
own  daring  presumptuousness : 

"By  the  faith,  but  Damascus  holds  at  least  one 
pearl  of  wondrous  beauty !" 

A  vivid  pink  splashed  the  girl's  face.  Fortunately 
no  one,  save  she,  had  caught  the  too  free  compliment 
of  this  bold  young  mueddin.  The  street  was,  and 
always  is,  very  noisy  daytimes. 

"How  dare  you?" 

He  only  laughed  for  answer.  Roses  where  had 
been  lilies!  The  old  Persian  poets  would  have  lik- 
ened now  the  lady's  face  to  a  new  garden  of  enchant- 
ment. 

The  din  around  them  increased, 


14        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"Ho!  Demon  of  a  camel!"  some  one  now  was 
yelling. 

"Back,  dog !"  This  time  it  was  the  dervish  him- 
self who  was  addressed  by  one  of  her  attendants. 

"The  dog  apologizes  to  you,  lady,  for  his  bold- 
ness," he  said  in  quick  mocking  tones,  and  released 
her. 

"No,  no !"  She  turned  to  the  attendant  who  had 
raised  a  staff  to  strike  the  dervish. 

The  latter's  eyes  expressed  now  a  sardonic  amuse- 
ment as  they  rested  on  the  servant;  there  was  also 
in  their  depths  a  dangerous  glitter.  The  man  stood 
uncertainly. 

"He  saved  me  from  a  bad  fall,"  she  added  hastily, 
whereupon  the  pole  was  lowered  and  the  lady  van- 
ished into  the  litter.  A  curtain  fell  and  the  camels 
with  their  delicate  patrician  burden  swayed  imperi- 
ously down  the  Street  that  is  called  Straight.  The 
dervish  gazed  after  them,  then  wheeled  rather 
abruptly  to  the  proprietor  of  the  pastry-shop. 

"Who  is  she?"  he  demanded. 

The  proprietor  heard  him  amazed.  This  ragged 
fellow  presumed  greatly,  because  he  had  performed 


A  VOICE   FROM   AFAR  15 

a  trifling  service.  And  he,  a  holy  man,  in  a  city 
where  it  is  not  considered  good  etiquette  even  to 
look  at  one  of  the  fair  sex  on  the  street!  This  bold 
dervish  had  dared  to  do  that  before  the  little  incident 
of  the  litter  and  now  the  impudent  rascal  inquired 
brazenly  about  her.'  , 

"Who  is  she?  Out  upon  you!"  exclaimed  the 
pastry-man  indignantly.  "Away  from  my  shop, 
rank  pretender  of  holiness!" 

"Pretender !"  For  a  moment  the  other,  as  if  a  little 
startled,  confronted  the  shopkeeper,  then  as  people 
were  beginning  to  gather,  he  seemed  to  think  better 
of  the  impulse  to  answer  angrily  and  moved  on. 

"That's  what  a  great  lady  gets  for  being  char- 
itable," grumbled  the  proprietor  to  his  assistant,  as 
he  reentered  his  kitchen.    "Impudence !" 

"Wasn't  that  the  beautiful  stepdaughter  of  — ?" 
the  assistant  murmured  insinuatingly  a  name. 

The  cake-man  looked  around.  In  the  quiet  of  his 
own  bake-place,  despite  his  indignation  against  the 
holy  man,  he  was,  himself,  not  altogether  averse  to 
gossiping  about  women.  Very  discreetly,  of  course ! 
Pouring  frosting  and  patting  sugar  seemed  a  natural 


i6        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

accompaniment  to  delicate  prittle  prattle  about 
dainty  femininity  in  the  higher  social  walks  of  life. 
He  nodded  now  assentingly. 

"The  one  that — ?"  went  on  the  assistant. 

"Yes ;  May  and  December,  I  call  them." 

"Good !"  Adjusting  a  plum  on  a  succulent  baclc- 
ground. 

"A  dove,  I  have  heard." 

"You  mean  a  young  tigress.  They  say — "  He 
whispered. 

"No?"     Listening  with  delight. 

"Yes;  one  of  the  servants  told  a  servant  of — *' 

"The  stepmother  will  be  put  out.  She  was  here 
yesterday." 

"She?    Ugh!" 

Then  they  put  the  sweet  things  in  to  balce.  They 
had  discussed  what  promised  to  be  a  choice  scandal 
for  the  patrons  of  sweetmeats.  In  the  inner  rooms 
of  the  many  shops  of  this  kind,  women  would  soon 
be  mouthing  it  with  the  other  delectable  things. 

Outside  the  stream  of  life  flowed  on.  The  der- 
vish was  now  a  part  of  it.  At  first  he  had  moved 
mechanically,  but  before  long  he  straightened  and 
squared  his  shoulders.     Judging  from  the  quick 


A   VOICE   FROM   AFAR  i; 

glances  he  cast  around  him,  his  mind  had  again  be- 
come focused  on  the  ever-changing  details  of  his 
immediate  environment. 

Within  doors  at  this  hour  every  one  seemed  to  be 
eating.  The  merchant  in  his  shop  sat  cross-legged, 
plate  on  knee.  Glimpses  into  back  rooms  afforded 
views  of  groups  convivially  busy  at  the  festive 
board.  In  many  booths,  layers  of  mutton,  inter- 
larded with  the  fat  of  the  tail,  turned  on  spits. 
Appetizing  odors  floated  in  and  out  of  doorways, 
as  if  to  tantalize  the  senses  of  half-starved  holy  men. 
Small  boys  and  girls  glided  hither  and  thither  with 
steaming  bowls  of  boiled  beans.  The  perambulat- 
ing donkeys,  laden  with  cocoanuts,  fruit  and  other 
edibles,  paused  that  the  people  might  buy. 

"Oh,  consoler  of  the  embarrassed,  have  a  sweet- 
meat." 

"Honey!  Oh,  oranges!  Relieve  me  of  them." 

"How  sweet  the  little  vegetable  from  near  the 
river!  Aid  in  partaking  of  it."  The  drivers*  voices 
arose  in  stentorian  invitations,  which  were  not  invi- 
tations to  the  penniless. 

Now  forcing  his  way  between  these  individuals, 
the  dervish  became  abruptly  conscious  that  some 


i8        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

one,  near  at  hand,  was  following  and  watching  him. 
He  half  turned  and  his  eyes  met,  for  the  fraction  of 
a  minute,  the  deep,  clear— devilishly  clear — ones  of 
a  thick-set,  fanatical-looking  Mohammedan;  then 
with  a  quick  contemptuous  swing  of  his  cloak  of 
rags,  the  dervish  plunged  into  the  crowd.  The  other, 
about  to  follow  more  quickly,  found  himself  touched 
on  the  arm  and  restrained. 

"The  saddle  for  my  master's  horse — is  it  fin- 
ished?" said  he  who  stopped  him. 

"Yes ;  I  will  be  at  my  shop  in  a  moment.  Await 
me  there."  He  would  have  broken  impatiently 
away,  when — 

"Why  not  come  now  ?"  said  the  man. 

And  Sadi,  the  saddler,  had  to  acquiesce,  for  he 
who  addressed  him  was  servant  to  Amad,  the  dia- 
mond merchant,  the  richest  man  in  Damascus,  and, 
moreover,  a  distant  relative  of  Sadi,  himself. 

"My  master  trusts  the  saddle  is  worthy  of  the 
Star  of  the  Desert." 

"It  is  worthy,"  said  the  saddlemaker,  his  ma- 
licious eyes  turned  in  the  direction  the  dervish  had 
gone. 


A   VOICE  FROM   AFAR  19 

"You  seemed  in  a  hurry,"  remarked  the  servant 
curiously. 

"Some  one  I  wished  to  speak  with.  I  saw  him  in 
the  crowd,"  muttered  the  other. 

"A  friend,  eh?" 

"Yes — a  friend."  With  a  curious  laugh.  "I 
made  his  acquaintance  at  Mecca.  But  perhaps  we'll 
meet  again.  Anyhow,  it  doesn't  matter,"  he  had  to 
add  politely,  though  inwardly  anathematizing  his 
rich  relative  and  most  lucrative  customer. 

Meanwhile  the  dervish  had  turned  into  a  narrow- 
er way  and  one  that  didn't  make  even  so  much  as  a 
pretext  of  being  straight  as  the  one  that  is  called  so. 
Faster  he  moved,  soon  turning  again,  choosing  now 
the  most  crooked  and  tortuous  byways.  It  may  be 
he  selected  this  route  designedly,  though  a  person 
would  have  to  possess  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
locality  not  to  go  wrong  in  that  maze,  or  it  may  be 
only  blind  chance  led  him ;  at  any  rate,  before  long, 
he  brought  up  in  front  of  an  entrance  that  he  re- 
garded not  without  certain  evidence  of  satisfaction. 
After  glancing  through  the  opening,  as  if  to  make 
sure  what  lay  before  him,  and  then  casting  a  quick 


go   ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

look  over  his  shoulder  down  the  way  he  had  come, 
he  stooped,  unfastened  his  dilapidated  shoes,  and 
depositing  them  at  the  door,  strode  boldly  forward 
into  the  large  court  of  a  superb  mosque. 

Here  reigned  peace  and  silence.  Near  the  door  a 
professional  letter-writer  dozed  over  his  desk.  He 
raised  a  tired  lid ;  his  deep-set  old  eyes  were  full  of 
retrospection.  Phrases  to  the  moon,  set  similes 
about  the  pomegranate  were  apt  to  become  cold 
through  disuse  in  the  ancient  chambers  of  his  brain. 
His  eyelid  again  drooped  like  a  weary  moth.  Ah, 
in  the  old  times — the  good  times — ^the  merry  times 
— ^then  a  letter-writer  had  plenty  to  do. 

The  dervish  passed  on.  Now  he  glided  across  the 
smooth  shining  pavement,  which  felt  cool  and  grate- 
ful to  his  travel-worn  feet,  while  doves,  of  which 
there  were  myriads,  made  way  for  him.  The  whir 
of  their  wings  alone  disturbed  the  stillness.  Athwart 
the  white  slabs  of  the  court  the  shadow  of  a  minaret 
lay  like  a  finger  admonishing  people  to  holiness.  It 
seemed  to  bid  them  enter  the  enclosed  House  of 
Allah,  where  were  soft  rugs  and  praying  niches. 

But  yonder  were  shady  recesses,  which  had  an 
especial  attraction  of  their  own,  too,  and  one  of 


A   VOICE  FROM   AFAR  21 

these — ^the  most  isolated — wooed  the  dervish.  There, 
beneath  spreading  branches,  gleamed  a  small  pool, 
bathing  place  for  pilgrims.  After  the  interminable 
dusty  roads,  over  mountain  and  desert,  the  sight  of 
the  cool  water  that  gushed  abundantly  forth  was 
most  welcome.  But  before  deciding  to  throw  off 
his  cloak  and  enjoy  the  luxury  of  a  bath,  he  once 
more  gazed  carefully  around  him.  He  was  alone; 
no  prying  eyes  were  bent  upon  him;  at  one  end  of 
the  fountain  a  small  space  was  screened  in  and  there 
he  would  be  even  more  secluded.  He  walked  toward 
it ;  now  his  limbs,  a  lighter  hue  than  the  mahogany 
of  his  face,  gleamed  white  in  the  reflections  of  the 
limpid  surface.  He  laved  himself  quickly  from  head 
to  foot,  then  drawing  his  capacious  cloak  once  more 
around  him,  he  lay  down. 

Heigho!  If  one  could  only  sleep  away  hunger! 
Still  his  bath  had  refreshed  him,  and  since  it  was  im- 
possible to  eat,  perhaps  he  might  court  a  few  winks 
of  forget  fulness.  But  his  appetite  (the  appetite  of 
youth)  followed  in  his  dreams.  The  aggravating 
flesh-pots  mingled  with  wild  hostile  faces.  He  saw 
again  the  fat  sheep  sacrificed  and  left  uneaten  in  the 
holiest  city.     Prodigal  waste  of  good  chops  and 


22   ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

juicy  saddles  of  mutton !  Oh,  for  a  nice  chop  now 
»— such  as  you  get  at  Sharpe's  on  Forty- fourth  Street, 
near  Broadway — a  chop,  two  or  more  inches  thick, 
lashed  with  French  fried  and  a  tankard  of  old 
musty  conveniently  near — 

"Old  musty?"  What  had  he  to  do  with  that,  he 
who  was  supposed  never  to  partake  of  aught  alco- 
holic ?  And  Sharpe's  ?  What  was  Sharpe's  to  him, 
a  good  Mohammedan,  and  very  holy  man,  to  boot? 
By  the  sacred  eyebrow  of  the  prophet,  who  had  him- 
self once  fasted  three  days  in  a  cave,  but  those  were 
chops  which  were  chops ! — 

Eh?  What  now?  Voices?  Trouble?  Perhaps 
some  one  had  playfully  tossed  a  tankard  at  a  waiter 
and  there  was  a  joyful  little  mix-up,  a  brief  misun- 
derstanding—  But  this  was  not  Sharpe's,  though 
there  was  a  voice,  and  a  loud  one.  The  dervish  sat 
up;  night  had  fallen.  Beyond  the  wall  on  one  side, 
he  knew  were  the  tombs.  Not  likely  the  voice  came 
from  there!  On  the  other  side,  however,  the  pala- 
tial quarters  of  the  wealthy  and  aristocratic  class 
basked  in  the  immediate  and  beneficent  proximity  of 
the  mosque.  The  dervish  looked  in  the  direction  of 
the  houses.    As  Damascus  is  the  wealthiest  as  well 


A  VOICE   FROM   AFAR  23 

as  the  oldest  city,  it  boasted,  he  was  aware,  of  a  so- 
cial set,  exclusive  and  princely.  .Were  Aladdin  to 
rub  his  lamp  and  be  set  down  in  one  of  yonder  man- 
sions, that  fortunate  poor  young  man  would  find 
himself  amid  a  scene  of  fairy-like  luxuriousness. 
And  were  that  same  poor  young  man  permitted,  in 
these  prosiac  and  less  magical  days,  to  look  around 
upon  forbidden  scenes,  he  might  find  there  the  prin- 
cess of  his  dreams. 

The  dervish  listened.  His  gaze  directed  itself 
specifically  toward  the  upper  stories,  as  much  as  he 
could  see  of  one  of  the  fairly  well-lighted  mansions 
— the  tallest — just  outside  the  wall.  From  this 
stately  edifice  came  the  disturbing  tones,  a  man's, 
vibrating,  quivering  with  anger.  The  surroundings 
were  ancient;  the  setting  was  that  of  medieval  ro- 
mance, but  the  words  had  a  familiar  and  up-to-date 
ring : 

"I  divorce  you !" 

"Oh,  ho!"  The  modern  Aladdin  smiled  disap- 
pointedly. "Nothing  more  interesting  than  a  little 
domestic  squabble!" 

"I  divorce  you !" 

A  second  time  the  words  rang  out.    "Look  out, 


24        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY, 

my  friend,"  murmured  the  listener  to  himself. 
"Three  times  and  out,  here,  you  know,  by  your  out- 
landish laws.  Better  wait  until  you're  not  so  angry. 
Try  a  water-pipe  first,  with  a  soothing  dash  of  hash- 
ish. Always  try  a  water-pipe,  before  proceeding  to 
extremities,  unless  you  would  live  to  regret — '* 

"I  divorce  you !" 

The  dervish  yawned.  "Well,  now  you've  done  it. 
You  certainly  have !" 

A  woman's  voice,  musical  as  silver  bells,  laughed 
mockingly.  Whence  came  it;  from  the  sky,  the 
shining  heavens — a  chamber  of  yonder  palace? 

"You  have  all  heard?"  The  man  seemed  fairly 
beside  himself.  "By  Allah's  will,  I  have  set  this 
witch  from  me.    Her  beauty  hath  made  me  mad — " 

Again  that  laughter ! 

"You  hear?  She  defies  me.  Now  by  Allah's  will 
it  is  done.  She  must  go.  I  will  have  no  more  of 
her." 

Silence!  From  the  big  house  came  no  further 
sound. 

"A  legal  divorce,  that,  all  right,"  the  dervish  mut- 
tered. 

Then  he  yawned  again — such  comedies,  or  trage- 


A   VOICE    FROM    AFAR  25 

dies,  arc  very  common — and  stretched  his  lithe  fig- 
ure once  more.  Life  was,  indeed,  sordid  without 
romance.  He  looked  up  at  the  stars.  Strangely 
enough  they  seemed  now  to  frame  a  girl's  face — 
that  of  the  lady  of  the  pastry-shop.  He  dismissed 
it  and  laughed  ironically.  What  had  he  to  do  with 
star  dreamings?  Had  he  not  outlived  them? 
Broken  vows,  masculine  anger,  feminine  recrimina- 
tions, partings — those  were  the  realities  the  world 
over,  whether  in  New  York  or  Damascus. 

"Were  they,  indeed?"  The  stars  seemed  now  to 
laugh  at  him.  One,  like  a  great  pink  warm-hued 
diamond  pulsated  shamelessly.  He  turned  his  back 
on  it  and  drew  his  cloak  closer.  How  strong  the 
scent  of  the  flowers!  Whence  came  it — from  what 
garden?  He  stirred  restlessly,  then  slept  again. 
His  next  awakening  was  more  startling. 


CHAPTER  III 

AN   ASTONISHING  PROPOSITION 

SOME  one  touched  him.  Instantly  weariness 
left  him  and  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  every  muscle 
tense.  Confronting  him  were  two  shadows,  omi- 
nously near  in  the  dim  light.  At  the  dervish's  invol- 
untary menacing  attitude  one  of  the  intruders  drew 
slightly  back.  A  faint  glow,  like  quivering  diamond 
dust,  revealed  the  immediate  surroundings. 

"What  do  you  want?"  Beneath  his  cloak  the  der- 
vish's fingers  gripped  something  that  was  neither 
Koran  nor  string  of  beads. 

"To  speak  with  you,"  answered  the  foremost  of 
the  intruders,  a  little  uneasily.  As  he  spoke  he 
glanced  back  at  his  companion. 

"About  what?"  demanded  the  dervish. 

"That  you  will  learn  later,  if  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  follow  us." 

"I  shall  learn  now,  before  following."    Grimly. 
26 


AN   ASTONISHING   PROPOSITION    27 

"But  this — this  is  no  place.'*  The  man's  tones, 
though  uncertain,  as  if  he,  too,  had  some  doubts  as 
to  the  wisdom  and  propriety  of  his  purpose,  were 
courteous  enough.  "In  Allah's  name,  hesitate  no 
longer,  but  come." 

"I  am  very  comfortable  where  I  am."  Quietly. 

"What  do  you  fear?" 

"I  don't  fear.  Only  I  am  too  sleepy  to  stir. 
Besides,  why  should  I  accompany  those  whom  I 
do  not  know  ?" 

"We  are  honorable  men,  come  as  your  bene- 
factors." 

"Do  benefactors  fall  from  the  sky?  And  at  this 
hour?"    Significantly. 

"Deign  to  follow  us,  and  find  out — and  for  to- 
night and  some  days  condescend  to  become  our  hon- 
ored guest." 

"Guest?"  Had  he  heard  aright?  The  dervish 
laughed  derisively.    "What  trap  is  this?" 

"It  is  no  trap.  You  will  be  well  fed,  finely 
clothed  and  given  a  fat  purse  into  the  bargain." 

"You  but  seek  to  make  merry  at  my  expense." 
Wearily. 

"Words  of  truth  alone  fall  from  our  lips.    We 


28        ALADDIN    FROM   BROADWAY 

were  sent  hither  to  find  you.'* 

The  dervish  started  sHghtly.    "To  find  me?" 

"Perhaps  I  should  have  said,  you  or  any  other 
ragged  holy  man,"  answered  the  visitor  with  a  smile. 
"Another  would  have  done  as  well,  and  he  were 
that." 

"Is  it  so  ?  Your  words  do  not  comport  with  your 
errand."    Bluntly. 

"Why,  what  can  you  know  of  our  errand — yet?" 
In  surprise. 

"You  were  sent  by  a  certain  saddler,  a  very  dis- 
reputable lying  fellow."  The  dervish's  eyes  gleamed 
challengingly. 

"A  saddler?  We  know  nothing  of  any  saddler. 
At  least,  not  in  this  matter." 

The  speaker's  tones  were  earnest  and  calculated  to 
carry  conviction.  The  dervish  regarded  him  more 
closely. 

"Deign  to  do  as  we  ask,"  the  man  went  on  eager- 
ly, "and  I  promise  you  will  be  well  treated." 

"Who  are  you  ?  Harun-al-Raschid  and  his  grand 
vizier  come  to  tempt  a  poor  holy  man  with  the 
riches  and  luxuries  of  the  world  ?"  the  dervish  now 
demanded  lightly. 


AN   ASTONISHING   PROPOSITION    29 

"We  can  claim  no  such  distinction."  As  the  fore- 
most of  the  visitors  spoke  he  exchanged  meaning 
glances  with  his  companion. 

"Most  dervishes  .  .  .  half-witted,"  murmured 
the  latter. 

"All  the  better  ...  for  our  purpose."  Sotto 
voce  from  the  other.  Then  to  the  dervish:  "We 
are  but  plain  citizens  of  Damascus.  Harun-al- 
Raschid,"  indulgently,  "died  many  centuries  ago. 
But  tell  me,"  abruptly,  "are  you  hungry?" 

"Am  I?"  In  spite  of  himself  the  dervish's  voice 
was  eager.    "Why?" 

"Because  I  know  of  a  little  cafe  near,  which  has 
a  cook  worthy  of  a  place  at  the  prophet's  right  hand ; 
where  may  be  had  kawurmeh — such  a  stew ! — cabob 
roasted  on  skewers;  fish  dressed  with  oil;  a  boned 
fowl  stuffed  with  pistachio  nuts — " 

"Truly  it  is  the  caliph  of  Bagdad,"  muttered  the 
dervish.  "Or  a  geni,  come  in  human  form  to  tor- 
ment me." 

The  other  may  have  divined  that  famished  glint 
in  the  holy  one's  eyes  for  he  went  on  more  unctu- 
ously, rolling  his  words  as  if  he  were  rolling  over 
delicacies  jn  his  mouth ; 


30        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"Kunafeh,  sweetened  with  sugar  or  honey —  He 
is  very  famous  for  his  pastry.  It  melts  on  the  lips 
when  one  has  only  a  small  appetite.  When  one  has 
a  large  one — "  He  drew  in  his  breath  and  fin- 
ished his  sentence  by  rolling  his  eyes.  "Then  when 
you  have  dined  to  repletion,  there  is  the  sun-ripened 
watermelon,  and  a  certain  sweet  drink  this  wonder- 
ful cook  is  renowned  for — " 

"I  think,"  interrupted  the  dervish  rather  hastily, 
"you  have  sufficiently  enumerated  the  accomplish- 
ments of  this  very  interesting  man.  And  I  agree 
with  you  he  is  worthy  of  a  seat  at  the  prophet's  right 
hand.  But  alas,  for  me  are  these  delicacies  forbid- 
den— unattainable,  at  present,  as  the  delights  of 
Paradise,  itself!" 

"Not  if  you  go  with  us."    Promptly. 

"But  the  price?" 

"We  pay." 

"You  pay  him.    How  do  I  pay  youf* 

"Oh,  that  is  a  small  matter.  We'll  talk  about  it 
over  the  good  things  to  eat." 

"I'd  rather  talk  about  it  before  I  eat  them." 

"Here's  a  very  honest  fellow,  indeed !"  And  one 
of  the  intruders  nodded  approval  to  his  companion. 


AN    ASTONISHING   PROPOSITION    31 

"Truly,  we  are  lucky  to  have  found  him !"  assent- 
ed the  other. 

"Or  some  one  else  is  lucky." 

"Some  one  else,  of  course!" 

The  dervish  waited.  "There  is  a  slight  service — a 
very  slight  one — you  can  perform  in  return  for  all 
we  are  going  to  do  for  you,"  said  the  spokesman 
softly. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Get  married." 

"Eh?    What?" 

"Get  married.    That  is  all." 

"All !    What  manner  of  jest  is  this  ?" 

"It  is  no  jest.  You  are  to  get  married  and  yet 
not  get  married." 

"How  can  a  man  get  married  and  yet  not  get 
married  ?" 

"It  is  very  simple.  You  marry  and  then  you  un- 
marry.  You  have  only  to  say  T  divorce  you'  three 
times  in  the  presence  of  witnesses." 

"Divorce  made  easy!"     Ironically. 

"It  is  the  law." 

"The  Mohammedan  law — yes." 

"What  know  we  of  any  other?"    In  surprise. 


32    ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

"True."  Hastily.  "But  why  am  I  to  get  mar- 
ried?" 

"To  meet  a  little  exigency." 

"Oh !"  The  dervish  studied  more  closely  his  vis- 
itor. He  was  a  portly  man,  a  well-to-do  shopkeeper, 
no  doubt  And  his  companion  resembled  him  as  one 
pea  is  like  unto  another.  "When  am  I  to  get  mar- 
ried?" 

"To-morrow." 

*The  prophet  forbid!" 

"It  can  be  arranged." 

"Whom  am  I  going  to  marry?" 

"A  lady  of  quality." 

"Old?" 

"Young." 

"Beautiful?" 

"As  an  houri!"  This  time  it  was  a  duet;  both 
visitors  spoke  at  the  same  moment  and  their  voices 
were  as  one. 

The  dervish  frowned.  "An  houri!  You  might, 
at  least,  have  made  her  ugly." 

They  noticed  this  evidence  of  displeasure  on  his 
part,  not  altogether  with  disapproval.  Obviously 
this  dervish  was  so  holy  that  the  younger  and  morq 


AN  ASTONISHING   PROPOSITION    33 

attractive  a  woman  was,  the  more  he  disliked  the 
thought  of  her.  "Allah  has,  indeed,  guided  us  to  the 
right  one,"  murmured  the  spokesman.  And  then  to 
the  dervish :  "What  matters  it  to  you  if  she  is  beau- 
tiful? The  marriage  is  only  one  of  form.  She  will 
not  molest  you." 

"You  are  sure?" 

"Positive." 

"But  why  is  this  marriage  necessary?" 

"I  will  explain.  We  have  the  honor  to  serve  Amad 
Ahl-Masr,  the  affluent  jeweler  and  merchant  whose 
palace  overlooks  this  place." 

"Not  the  tall  one  ?"    The  dervish  showed  interest. 

"The  tallest,  of  course.  Now,  a  short  time  past, 
my  friend,  benefactor  and  patron,  Amad — " 

"Our  friend,  benefactor  and  patron!"  breathed 
his  companion. 

" — took  unto  himself  the  fairest  of  her  sex.  Such 
a  gala  occasion!  There  were  almas  and  singers 
and  entertainments  without  number.  Never  did  a 
wedding  open  more  auspiciously,  or  end  more  disas- 
trously. For,  though  devoted  to  her  lord,  the  lady 
was  young,  and — " 

"They  clashed,"  said  the  dervish  with  a  yawn. 


34   ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

"Unfortunately,  she  being  both  young  and  inno- 
cent to-day  thoughtlessly  said,  did  or  thought  some- 
thing that  disturbed  the  beneficent  temper  of  our 
illustrious  patron.  Then,  in  an  inadvertent  moment, 
he  summoned  witnesses  and  thrice,  in  a  solemn 
manner,  declared  the  triple  divorce,  which  is  a 
divorce,  indeed." 

"  'Solemn  manner'  ?"  The  dervish's  tone  ex- 
pressed amusement.  "And  you  said  his  house  was 
the  tall  one?  But  proceed.  He  declared  thrice  be- 
fore witnesses  *I  divorce  you'.  That  constitutes, 
without  doubt,  a  legal  separation.  According  to  the 
law  of  the  prophet  whose  will,"  bowing  ceremon- 
iously, "is  that  of  Allah,  the  lady  is  no  longer  mar- 
ried to  your  friend,  the  rich  diamond  merchant. 
How  did  she  relish  this  new-found  freedom  that  was 
so  unceremoniously  thrust  upon  her?" 

"She  wept  copiously." 

"What?" 

"As  if  her  heart  would  break."  .  With  a  mournful 
shake  of  the  head. 

"Indeed?"  Dryly.  "That,  no  doubt,  accounts 
for  the  sound  of  wailing  wafted  even  here." 

They  looked  at  him  suspiciously.  "She  wept  after 
she  realized  fully  what  she  had  done." 


AN   ASTONISHING   PROPOSITION    35 

"Oh,  after  ?"  murmured  the  dervish.  "Well,  why 
not?  First  scornful  laughter,  then  tears!"  He 
waved  his  hand  airily.    "Go  on." 

"At  the  spectacle  of  her  grief,  the  tender  heart  of 
the  merchant  melted  almost  at  once,  and  he  re- 
gretted what  he  had  done.  He  magnanimously  for- 
gave her  as  she  knelt  imploringly  at  his  feet.  He 
would  even  have  restored  her  to  her  old  place  and 
position,  but  alas!  There  were  and  are  difficulties. 
The  lady,  as  a  divorcee  has  been  obliged,  according 
to  the  law,  to  return  to  her  own  home,  and  thence 
he  may  not  bring  her,  until —  Well,  you  under- 
stand?" 

"Quite!  She  must  marry  again  and  be  divorced 
from  husband  number  two,  before  the  law  of  the 
prophet  permits  husband  number  one  that  was, 
through  remarriage,  again  to  claim  her.  All  of 
which  is  set  forth  in  the  Koran,  chapter  two,  verse 
two  hundred  and  twenty-six." 

"Exactly!"  They  nodded  their  approval  of  a 
dervish  so  learned  in  the  Book  he  knew  even  the 
numbers  of  the  sacred  verses. 

"That  much  I  learned  at  El-Azhar,  and  much  be- 
side," said  the  dervish.  "Also,  that  when  a  husband 
regrets   having   divorced   his   wife,   he   has   been 


36        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

known,**  shrewdly,  "to  look  around  for  some  pil- 
grim or  poor  man,  who  is  called  a  mustahall  or  hus- 
band of  convenience." 

"That  is  it.  You  just  say  you  take  her,  but  you 
don't.  It  must,  of  course,  be  legally  done,  though 
the  formalities  are  brief  for  a  divorcee.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  we  take  charge  of  you  after  the  ceremony." 

"No  doubt  of  that !"   From  the  second  man. 

"You  won't  even  have  to  see  the  bride  after  you're 
married  to  her.  Then  when  a  day  or  two  of  quiet, 
rest  and  meditation  have  gone  by,  you  earn  your  new 
clothes  and  a  fat  purse  by  divorcing  before  a  few 
witnesses,  the  lady,  and  thereupon  depart,  the  richer 
and  the  happier,  leaving  her  free  to  remarry  Amad, 
the  diamond  merchant.  What  could  be  better?" 
Rubbing  his  fat  hands. 

"What,  indeed?  You  put  it  convincingly.  An 
ideal  way  to  get  married!  There  wouldn't  be  any 
unhappy  marriages  if  all  people  got  married  like 
that." 

"Of  course  not"  This  holy  man,  like  many 
welees  or  those  "favored  of  heaven,"  was  certainly 
rather  weak  in  his  wits.  His  smile  now  was  child- 
like and  bland.    The  emissaries  of  the  rich  diamond 


AN   ASTONISHING    PROPOSITION    37 

merchant,  however,  humored  him  by  being  patient. 

"How  old  did  you  say  the  lady  was?" 

"Seventeen." 

"And  divorced  already!  Why,  before  she's  for- 
ty— "  The  dervish  shook  his  head  mournfully. 
"But  my  predecessor — I  mean,  my  successor-to-be — 
how  has  time,  the  enemy,  treated  him?" 

"He  has  passed  the  line  when,  according  to  the 
prophet,  a  man  becomes  a  man,  indeed." 

"This  marriage  to  me  would  make  her — ^this 
rather  volatile  young  lady  very  happy?" 

"It  would." 

"I  should  be  a  great  benefactor,  then?"  With 
mocking  gaiety. 

"No  doubt." 

"Both  parties  would  bless  me  ?"    Expansively. 

"They  would." 

"Then  why  should  I  hesitate?" 

"You  don't."    Persuasively. 

The  dervish  made  no  answer.  Could  they  have 
read  what  lay  behind  the  inscrutable  expression  of 
the  face  half  turned  from  them  now,  they  would 
have  been  startled.  More  was  involved  in  his  de- 
cision than  they  knew.    To  become  the  bridegroom 


38        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

of  blushing  seventeen  and  then  to  dissolve  the  tie — 
that  would  not  be  difficult.  He  would  be  participat- 
ing in  a  mere  formality,  lending  himself  to  a  com- 
monplace transaction,  frequently  employed  among 
Mohammedans  when  husbands  who  lost  their  tem- 
pers desired  back  that  which  in  a  moment  of  anger 
they  had  set  from  them.  But  the  possibilities  of 
other  complications,  more  serious  ones  ? — Were  they 
offset  by  certain  advantages?  His  present  needs 
were  urgent.  To  get  out  of  Damascus  he  needed  a 
purse.  It  was  a  queer  way  to  make  money,  yet  an 
honest  enough  one,  if  people  would  quarrel  and  get 
divorced  and  then  be  foolish  enough  to  want  to  re- 
turn to  a  state  of  perpetual  infelicity.  Sweet  seven- 
teen! That  was  about  the  age  of  the  lady  of  the 
pastry-shop.  The  satirical  look  faded  for  a  moment 
from  the  bold  eyes,  but  immediately  returned.  His 
gallantry  had  nearly  cost  him  a  good  beating.  What 
a  fool  to  have  risked  it !  A  cudgeling  for  a  woman ! 
He  laughed  softly,  derisively. 

"You  have  decided?"  inquired  the  portly  man 
curiously. 

"To  the  cafe !"  was  the  answer.    "Eat,  drink  and 
be  merry,  for  to-morrow  we — get  married !" 


CHAPTER  ly 

LIGHT  OF  LIFE 

THE  dervish  was  married  next  day,  at  high 
noon,  or  somewhere  between  five  and  six 
o'clock,  oriental  time.  As  El  Sabbagh,  the  dyer — ■ 
the  dervish's  portly  friend  of  the  night  before — 
had  pointed  out,  marriages  in  the  case  of  a  widow, 
or  a  divorcee,  are  conducted  with  comparatively  lit- 
tle ostentation.  A  number  of  details  of  the  spousal 
ceremonies  of  a  young  girl,  unmarried  before,  are, 
on  the  second,  or  third,  occasion,  omitted.  The 
guests  do  not  expect  to  be  regaled  by  sprightly  en- 
tertainments by  dancing  girls,  or  female  singers. 
No  torch-bearers  march  with  the  groom,  and  no 
elaborate  repasts,  or  mudnat,  are  served.  But 
even  so,  the  ceremony  is  far  from  simple,  from  an 
occidental  standpoint. 

The  dyer,  bearing  a  bundle  which  proved  to  con- 
tain a  new  suit  of  clothes,  took  the  dervish  early  in 
hand  on  the  day  of  the  wedding. 

39 


40        ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

"You  can  put  these  on,"  he  said,  indicating  the 
garments,  "while  I  go  and  see  Light  of  Life,  to 
arrange  about  the  dowry." 

"Light  of  Life?"  The  dervish  stretched  himself 
more  comfortably  on  the  cushions  of  the  divan  in 
the  dyer's  house  where  he  was  temporarily  domi- 
ciled. "Who  is  she?  Some  prospective  relative  of 
mine?" 

"Your  mother-in-law.  A  charming  woman, 
though,"  dubiously,  "a  rather  close  hand  at  a  bar- 
gain." 

"You  mean  /  have  to  give  a  dowry?"  Reaching 
for  a  cup  of  coffee. 

"Well,  Amad  has  to  give  it  for  you." 
"Very  kind  of  him !    First  he  gives  me  his  wife, 
and  then  a  dowry  to  go  with  her." 

"It  was  at  Light  of  Life's  suggestion."  Lugu- 
briously. 

"And  she  dominates  the  situation?"  With  a 
laugh.  "I  begin  to  admire  my  mother-in-law  im- 
mensely." The  dyer  gave  him  a  curious  look.  "By 
the  way,  what  did  you  say  the  name  of  my  wife-to- 
be  is?" 
"Fatma." 


LIGHT  OF   LIFE  41 

"Good !  I  will  try  to  remember.  But  this  Amad  ? 
— this  dear  good  Amad,  my  benefactor — after  I 
have  divorced  Fatma,  and  he  remarries  her,  will 
he  have  to  give  her  a  third  dowry?" 

"Thatisas  Allah  wills!"    Resignedly. 

"Or  Light  of  Life!"    Gaily. 

The  dyer  shrugged.  "I'll  leave  you  now  to  array 
yourself.  Never  had  a  substitute  bridegroom  before 
such  garments,  all  embroidered  and  fine  silk.  Be 
ready  when  I  return.  The  servant  will  bring  water 
for  the  religious  ablutions.  How  long  does  it  take 
you  to  say  your  prayers?" 

"About  three  hours." 

"Can  you  not  say  thirty  minutes?"  In  dismay, 

"And  so  omit  some  thirty  rekahsf  On  your  con- 
science be  it!" 

But  left  to  himself  the  dervish  forgot  to  repeat 
even  a  single  verse.  He  gazed  around  him  with  a 
quizzical  uplifted  brow.  Dame  Fortune  was  cer- 
tainly a  most  capricious  mistress.  That  luxurious 
couch  was  in  marked  contrast  to  the  flagstones  he 
had  been  lately  accustomed  to.  Lighting  his  long 
pipe,  he  inhaled  and  exhaled  the  excellent  Persian 
tobacco  with  a  nice  appreciation  of  its  quality.    His 


42   ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

host  had  been  as  good  as  his  word  and  had  proved 
most  hospitable.  He  had  even  provided  a  carat 
weight  of  ambergris  to  lend  the  coffee  unusual  fra- 
grance. The  dervish  poured  out  the  last  of  it  from 
the  coffee-pot,  and  then  set  down  the  delicate  cup 
of  brass,  holding  the  dainty  porcelain,  with  a  sigh 
of  satisfaction.  It  was  long  since  he  had  fared 
so  well.  He  felt  hardly  awake  yet.  Was  it  all 
a  dream?  He  had  gone  to  sleep  a  vagabond;  he 
awoke — if  he  were  awake! — in  the  role  of  an  im- 
promptu bridegroom.  Rightfully  he  should  be  lying 
now  in  a  little  court  of  the  mosque,  but  four  walls 
enclosed  him,  while  overhead  a  wooden  ceiling  re- 
stricted the  upward  gaze  to  the  consideration  of  a 
somewhat  confused  pattern  in  paneling. 

He  clapped  his  hands — more  tobacco!  A  girl, 
resembling  the  conventional  slave  girl  of  an  illu- 
mined eastern  manuscript,  answered  the  summons. 
He  gave  his  order,  and — "Send  for  a  barber,"  he 
said  suddenly,  his  last  command  an  afterthought. 

When  half  an  hour  later  the  dyer  returned,  he 
rubbed  his  eyes  unbelievingly.  He  had  brought  home 
the  night  before  a  disreputable-looking  holy  man; 
he  gazed  now  upon — 


LIGHT   OF   LIFE  43 

"A  gallant  of  gallants !"  he  exclaimed.  His  guest's 
face  was  clean  shaven.  Attired  in  his  new  garments, 
he  looked  like  a  well-born  and  distinguished  young 
sheik  of  the  desert.  The  dyer  stared  where  the 
beard  had  been.  "Did  you  not  regret  to  part  with 
it?" 

"Why  should  I?  Am  I  hadji  (pilgrim)  or  bride- 
groom? Do  I  not  wish  to  represent  your  friend 
worthily  ?" 

The  argument  was  unanswerable.  Still  the  der- 
vish had  displayed  an  unexpected  largeness  of  spirit 
in  thus  dispensing  with  the  flaming  insignia  of  holi- 
ness. The  dyer  acted  as  if  he  scarcely  knew  whether 
to  be  pleased  or  not. 

"Why,  your  own  brother  would  not  know  you," 
he  said,  at  length. 

"Wouldn't  he  ?"  returned  the  dervish  with  a  pecu- 
liar and  satisfied  smile.  He  didn't  add  that  to  pro- 
vide for  a  remote  contingency,  rather  than  to  look 
the  part  of  the  conventional  bridegroom,  had  been 
the  real  reason  for  this  change  of  appearance.  "Well, 
I'm  ready." 

So  they  sallied  forth,  not  too  ostentatiously,  the 
bridegroom  on  an  ass  and  the  dyer  astride  of  a 


44        ALADDIN    FROM   BROADWAY 

sturdy  little  donkey,  and  presently  drew  up  in  front 
of  a  house.  A  thick-lipped,  ebony-hued  bowwab,  or 
doorkeeper,  of  ferocious  aspect,  admitted  the  pair; 
at  the  same  time  a  veiled  woman  who  had  apparently 
been  waiting  for  them  at  once  came  forward. 

"Behold  the  bridegroom!"  said  the  dyer,  not 
without  some  complacency.  "You  see  I  have  been 
true  to  my  promise,  oh,  Light  of  Life." 

She  regarded  the  young  man  hastily;  her  eyes, 
in  which  shone  suspicion,  doubt  and  misgiving, 
fairly  bored  into  him. 

"I  supposed  it  was  a  dervish — a  good-for-nothing 
you  were  to  find,"  she  said  in  a  shrewish  voice. 

"This  is  such  a  one,"  replied  the  dyer  reassur- 
ingly. 

"Yes;  I  am,  indeed,  a  good-for-nothing,"  inter- 
jected the  dervish  with  his  most  amiable  smile. 

"You  should  have  seen  him  last  night,"  put  in  the 
dyer  hastily.  "Such  rags !  Of  course,  I  had  to  dress 
him  up,  in  order  that  the  neighbors — you  under- 
stand?" 

"Humph!"  she  muttered.  "In  my  early  days  a 
slave  served  on  such  occasions  as  this ;  now  because 
there  are  no  slaves,  owing  to  the  cursed  Christians, 


LIGHT    OF   LIFE  45 

we  must  go  to  the  highways  and  gather  in  Allah 
knows  whom." 

"I  trust,  madam,"  said  the  dervish  politely,  "to 
make  your  daughter  a  good  husband." 

"Well,"  she  returned  sourly,  "there  is  no  time  to 
look  further.  The  guests  will  soon  be  here.  Follow." 

He  obeyed.  She  walked  in  a  special  atmosphere 
of  venom  all  her  own,  which  seemed  fairly  to  radiate 
from  her.  When  she  spoke  of  the  "cursed  Chris- 
tians", her  tongue  was  as  if  dagger-tipped.  A 
listener  might  divine  that  she  had  as  much  aflfection 
for  them  as  an  adder  for  those  it  would  strike.  Dom- 
inated by  her  presence,  every  nook  and  comer  of  the 
silent  house  suggested  lurking  perils.  It  had  a 
mysterious  uncanny  look.  The  dervish  glanced 
back  toward  the  entrance  to  the  street.  The  door 
leading  out  was  now  closed ;  the  big  black  giant  of  a 
howwab  stood  near  by  like  a  guardian  presence  sug- 
gestive of  those  overgrown  demons  that  act  as  outer 
sentinels  to  an  oriental  temple.  The  eye  of  the 
large  watcher  met  the  dervish  as  the  latter  looked 
back  with  an  expression  that  seemed  to  savor  of 
malicious  and  infernal  cunning,  and  involuntarily 
the  young  man  straightened  while  his  gaze  became 


46   ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

more  keen  and  alert.  Without  hesitation,  however, 
he  strode  after  the  woman  through  a  narrow  door- 
way. The  smooth  steps  leading  upward  were  slip- 
pery and  he  had  to  be  careful.  Once  he  nearly 
plunged  forward,  but  the  woman  did  not  appear  to 
notice ;  she  glided  ahead  like  a  specter. 

"Wait !"  They  had  arrived  at  a  small  room.  She 
spoke  the  single  word,  then  vanished.  The  dyer, 
too,  had  mysteriously  disappeared.  The  dervish, 
left  alone,  looked  around  with  a  slightly  strained 
affectation  of  nonchalance;  he  tried  to  act  as  if  he 
felt  at  home,  as  if  this  were  the  most  natural  place 
for  him  to  be  in.  The  attempt  was  not  altogether 
successful.  How  quiet — how  unnaturally  quiet  it 
was!  He  strode  to  the  threshold  but  to  find  the 
door  locked.  Light  of  Life  had  turned  the  key  on 
the  outside  when  leaving.  He  was  a  prisoner  ?  Well, 
not  exactly,  perhaps.  Still,  he  couldn't  get  out. 
Had  they  locked  him  in  there  merely  to  sequester 
him  temporarily  from  inquisitive  women  servants 
or  other  folk?  Certainly  this  was  strange  treat- 
»inent  to  accord  a  bridegroom.  The  door  looked  solid 
md  substantial;  the  sunlight,  gleaming  grudgingly 
hrough  a  lattice,  showed  it  to  be  of  old-fashioned 


LIGHT   OF  LIFE  47 

construction.  Was  the  place  a  trap  ?  If  so,  he  might 
beat  his  fists  in  vain  on  those  walls,  he  was  telling 
himself,  when  a  man's  well-remembered  voice, 
somewhere  without,  was  wafted  to  him. 

Sadi's! — he  would  have  sworn  to  the  saddler's 
tones.  What  was  he  doing  there,  unless — ?  The 
dervish  listened  more  attentively,  holding  his  breath. 
Now  he  heard  nothing.  Silence  which  seemed 
deeper,  more  ominous,  ensued.  The  young  man 
forced  a  laugh.  Of  course  that  could  not  have  been 
Sadi  out  there.  It  was  unreasonable  to  suppose  him 
in  this  house.  Unreasonable!  The  whole  proposi- 
tion for  his  (the  dervish's)  employment,  as  out- 
lined by  the  dyer,  was  logical  and  clear;  it  could 
have  veiled  no  complicated  or  ulterior  motives.  Still 
an  Oriental's  mind  is  subtle  and  devious  and  he 
moves  to  an  end  in  a  most  roundabout  fashion. 

The  dervish  continued  to  stand  stock-still,  his  head 
slightly  tilted,  while  around  him  the  air  seemed 
charged  with  vibrating  waves.  He  was  alone  and 
yet  the  cognizance  of  another  presence,  close  at 
hand,  suddenly  smote  him.  At  one  end  of  the  room 
was  a  wooden  screen  separating  this  cell  or  apart- 
ment from  another  room;  beyond  was  darkness. 


48   ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

He  thought  he  heard  a  movement  and  caught  a  quick 
indrawn  breath.  He  knew  now  some  one  he  could 
not  see  was  regarding  him,  looking  him  up  and 
down,  studying  him.  He  could  almost  feel  that 
burning  gaze.  It  began  to  be  most  disconcerting. 
He  salaamed  politely, 

"Sir  or  Madam!"  He  used  his  most  respectful 
form  of  salutation,  though  under  his  cloak  his  hand 
touched  and  closed  on  a  hard  handle.  The  courteous 
words  evoked  no  response  and  anger  began  to  move 
him.  Hazards  that  can  not  be  grasped  are  most 
irritating.  He  strode  nearer  to  the  screen.  As 
much  sunshine  as  could  enter  here  limned  his  figure. 

"Take  a  good  look,"  he  said  boldly,  "whoever 
you  are!" 

A  faint  breath  of  perfume  was  wafted  toward 
him.  It  seemed  vaguely  reminiscent — he  did  not 
know  of  what.  He  heard  another  sound — a  sigh  ? — 
and  his  face  changed.  It  was  no  man  who  stood  be- 
hind that  screen.  He  found  himself  not  so  blase 
as  to  be  incapable  of  experiencing  a  thrill. 

"Taking  a  peep  at  your  husband-to-be?"  he 
laughed.    "Woman's  curiosity!  Well,  what  do  you 


Take  a  good  look,"  he  said  boldly,  "  whoever  you  are " 


LIGHT   OF   LIFE  49 

think  of  this  piece  of  masculine  merchandise?"  No 
answer.  "Fie!  A  wife  who  won't  talk!"  He  had 
time  for  no  more.  The  key  again  turned  in  the 
lock  and  Light  of  Life  entered. 

"Come,"  she  said  curtly. 

He  went.  In  the  larger  apartment  to  which  he 
was  conducted,  there  were  a  number  of  people  and 
he  gazed  at  them  sharply,  but  to  his  relief  Sadi,  the 
saddler,  was  not  among  the  gathering.  The  dervish 
had  then  only  fancied  he  had  heard  that  familiar 
voice.  And  obviously  there  was  going  to  be  a  wed- 
ding— his  own !  His  momentary  suspicions,  though 
natural,  had  wronged  his  good  friend,  the  dyer. 
More  blithely  the  dervish  now  held  himself. 

His  bride  wasn't  there.  She  never  is,  for  Mo- 
hammedan weddings  are  conducted  without  her. 
She  is  indispensable  and  yet  dispensable.  She  is 
present  only  in  spirit;  a  wekeel,  or  go-between,  an- 
swers for  her.  A  substitute  voice  does  the  consent- 
ing. The  guests  are  spared  the  bride's  blushes,  as 
the  wekeel  is  usually  too  old  and  hardened  to  supply 
the  substitute  ones.  The  present  ceremony  was 
very  properly  conducted.    Although  the  groom  had 


50   ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

never  looked  upon  the  face  of  his  bride  and  presum- 
ably never  would,  he  was  married  fast  and  tight. 
He  couldn't  have  been  married  tighter. 

The  go-between  had  announced:  "I  betroth  to 
thee,"  etc.,  and  he  had  answered  (he  was  allowed 
to  answer  in  his  own  voice)  :  "I  accept  from  thee," 
etc.  He  had  answered  very  well,  with  just  the  right 
degree  of  ardency — not  enough  to  have  been  con- 
sidered decorous.  Then  some  one  murmured :  "Now 
may  the  blessing — "  and  the  trick  was  done.  Those 
present  continued  to  chant  verses  from  the  Koran. 
They  were  doing  their  best  to  make  the  occasion 
seem  a  holy  one.  They  were  straining  every  nerve 
to  give  it  a  verisimilitude  of  solemnity.  Their  ear- 
nestness was  really  touching.  They  called  down 
kindly  encomiums  and  shouted  up  loud  petitions  in 
the  bridegroom's  behalf.  They  pictured  for  him  a 
garden  of  bliss.  He  strove  not  to  appear  too  elated. 
The  spectacle  of  the  dyer  slipping  out  after  the  cere- 
mony— ^to  repair  to  the  palace  of  Amad,  no  doubt, 
and  to  report  progress! — was  calculated  to  prevent 
the  bridegroom's  being  too  overwhelmed  by  a  sense 
of  his  own  good  fortune  and  felicity.  Amad  was 
really  the  one  to  be  congratulated — not  he,  the  pres- 


LIGHT  OF  LIFE  51 

ent  ephemeral  bridegroom.  For  him,  Fatma  would 
be  but  a  name  like  those  other  Fatmas  in  the  story 
books. 

Even  while  marrying  her  his  thoughts  had  per- 
versely leaped  to  another.  When  he  said,  *'l  take 
thee,  Fatma,"  it  was  not  Fatma,  at  all,  whom  he 
"took".  At  this  psychological  moment,  by  some 
freak  of  fancy,  the  image  of  the  lady  of  the  pastry- 
shop  had  recurred  to  him.  It  was  very  reprehensible, 
but  he  had  thought  of  her — that  other — whom  he 
had  caught  to  his  breast,  into  whose  eyes  he  had 
gazed  and  who  had  then  passed  on.  Whither?  As 
if  he  cared!  For  him,  deep  dark  eyes  were  only 
deep  dark  eyes,  and  he  could  contemplate  them  im- 
personally as  an  artist  might,  Allah  be  praised!  A 
"burnt  child,"  etc.  He  had  had  his  lesson.  Who 
she  was — whether  maid  or  matron — ^mattered  not. 
She  had  come  and  gone.  She  had  gazed  at  him  with 
big  luminous  eyes — he  wouldn't  deny  they  were  very 
beautiful  eyes — and  the  time  had  been  when  he 
might,  perhaps,  have  fallen  madly  in  love  with  them 
— or  her.  But  that  time  was  past.  Exit  camels! 
Exit  lady ! 

From  these  frivolous  considerations  of  the  past. 


52        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

he  was  somewhat  rudely  recalled  to  the  present  and 
to  his  immediate  surroundings.  His  eyes,  cynically 
introspective,  had  rested,  at  first  casually,  then  with 
swift  intentness,  on  a  newcomer,  a  late-comer — 
Sadi,  the  saddler!  Yes,  that  person  stood  there,  in 
the  flesh,  before  him.  He  was  no  myth.  He  had 
stepped  in  when  the  ceremony  was  about  over  and 
was  now  one  of  the  guests.  Probably  he  had  been 
at  the  house  earlier,  had  gone  away  for  some  reason 
or  other  and  returned.  The  dervish  waited  for  him 
to  speak,  as  one  waits  for  the  inevitable;  it  was  a 
tense  moment.  But  the  other  continued  to  stand 
grim,  silent  and  motionless. 

Some  one,  however,  unconscious  of  the  irony  of 
the  act,  now  drew  the  saddler  forward  and  intro- 
duced him  to  the  bridegroom. 

"Distant  relative  of  Amad,"  said  the  person  who 
did  the  introducing. 

"Distant  relative,  did  you  say?"  The  young  man 
smiled.  So  Sadi  was  there  as  a  relative;  his  pres- 
ence portended  nothing  else — nothing  more  alarm- 
ing, or  ominous?  He  did  not  know  who  he,  the 
bridegroom,  was ;  he  had  not  recognized  him.  The 
dyer's  words  about  his  "own  brother"  not  knowing 


LIGHT   OF   LIFE  53 

him  recurred  reassuringly  to  the  bridegroom.  The 
two  men  saluted  as  only  those  of  the  same  faith  greet 
each  other. 

"Teiyheen!"  muttered  Sadi. 

"Allah  bless  thee,"  said  the  dervish  fervently. 

That  was  all.  But  once  or  twice  the  bridegroom 
felt  the  other's  gaze  and  divined  in  it  an  expression 
in  the  least  puzzled.  The  ordeal,  however,  was  for- 
tunately coming  to  a  close.  The  paid  wekeel  now 
began  to  sing  the  customary  praises  of  the  bride : 

"She  is  graceful  as  a  gazelle." 

"You  set  my  heart  on  fire,"  the  bridegroom  had 
to  answer. 

"Her  lips  are  as  sherbet  of  sugar." 

He  made  an  appropriate  reply. 

"And  what  a  handsome  bridegroom !"  said  one  of 
the  ladies  present,  with  a  little  giggle. 

"Can  you  blame  my  daughter  for  falling  in  love 
with  him  ?" 

Light  of  Life  actually  said  that.  The  bridegroom 
bowed  an  acknowledgment  and,  in  spite  of  the  thrill 
of  the  moment,  he  had  to  laugh.  What  a  woman ! 
And  how  ugly  must  be  the  face  concealed  by  that 
veil!     Around  him  the  other  women  moved  like 


54        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

black  shadows.  All  the  guests  were  now  talking 
vivaciously — ^all  except  Sadi,  who  said  no  word  and 
whose  ill-omened  countenance  had  become  set  and 
immovable.  The  wekeel  finished  her  task.  The 
bridegroom  had  to  go  now — or  to  be  taken  away,  to 
a  mosque,  to  pray  to  become  holy  enough  to  see,  for 
the  first  time,  one  whom  he  wasn't  going  to  see 
at  all. 

Bidding  ceremonious  farewell  to  his  new  mother- 
in-law.  Light  of  Life,  he  left  the  house  with  four 
male  relatives — ^whether  of  the  bride  or  Amad,  he 
knew  not.  The  saddler,  however,  was  not  of  them. 
The  last  the  young  man  saw  of  that  person  he  was 
gazing  after  him  with  bent  brows,  and  in  spite  of  the 
bridegroom's  aplomb,  something  like  a  cold  chill  in- 
sinuated itself  down  his  back.  He  felt  less  sure  of 
Sadi  now ;  that  intrusive  individual  probably  would, 
or  already  was  beginning  to  put  two  and  two  to- 
gether. He  would  most  likely  question  the  dyer — to 
learn  more  about  this  substitute  bridegroom,  where 
they  had  found  him  and  how  he  had  appeared.  And 
afte^-.tnaking  these  inquiries  what  conclusions  would 
the  saddler  draw!  The  dervish  could  imagine,  and 
involuntarily  he  hastened  his  steps.    He  wished  to 


LIGHT   OF   LIFE  55 

leave  the  house  and  the  neighborhood  behind  him  as 
soon  as  possible. 

He  could  congratulate  himself  that  those  who  had 
charge  of  his  nuptials  had  not  accentuated  the  later 
features  of  the  occasion  with  superfluous  embellish- 
ments, more  or  less  encumbering  to  expedition.  No 
musicians  or  hautboys  lent  unnecessary  picturesque- 
ness  or  slowness  to  their  progress.  Procession  ex- 
penses had  been  eliminated. 

The  streets  were,  as  usual,  crowded,  and  the  es- 
corting quartet  kept  close  to  the  bridegroom,  as  if 
they  imagined  he  might  wish  to  escape  now.  He  did. 
Circumstances  had  arisen  that  made  it  desirable 
for  him  to  get  away.  From  their  point  of  view  this 
would  be  unfortunate,  for  if  he  dodged  suddenly 
among  the  multitude  and  disappeared,  in  what  a 
predicament  would  he  leave  the  young  bride  ?  Mar- 
ried and  yet  with  no  husband  to  produce.  Her 
plight  would  be  worse  than  before.  Accordingly 
their  vigilance  never  relaxed  and  they  acted  more 
like  constables  of  the  2abit  than  new-found  relatives. 
He  strove  to  "make  conversation",  to  throw  them 
off  their  guard,  but  they  answered  curtly.  Finding 
his  efforts  toward  sociability  of  no  avail,  he  relapsed 


56        ALADDIN   FROM  BROADWAY 

into  silence  and  began  to  fear  that  there  was  noth- 
ing to  do  except  resign  himself.  But  man  proposes 
and  Allah  disposes.  A  great  hubbub  arose  in  the 
street. 

"Hi!  yi!"  A  procession  of  donkeys  and  camels 
had  stampeded.  Distracted  people  rushed  hither  and 
thither;  they  bore  down  upon  the  bridegroom  and 
carried  him  off;  unwittingly  they  absconded  with 
him.  He  found  himself  borne  along,  this  way  and 
that.  He  was  not  trying  to  escape;  he  was  just 
made  to ;  he  couldn't  help  himself.  When  finally  he 
managed  to  separate  himself  from  that  kidnaping 
human  current,  he  stood  in  a  narrow  side  lane.  In 
what  part  of  the  city?  Ah,  he  knew  now!  Yonder 
was  the  Street  called  Straight  and  there,  at  the 
corner,  was  a  certain  little  pastry-shop.  He  eyed 
it  furtively.  Now  why  had  fate  landed  him  here? 
To  play  tricks  on  him? — to  see  if  he  would  stand 
around  for  another  glimpse  of  the  fair  unknown? 
Nonsense!  Why  should  he  wish  to  see  her?  He 
didn't.  Nothing  was  further  from  his  thoughts. 
He  would  never  have  come  here  of  his  own  accord. 
Now  he  was  here,  he  would  go  away.  Let  her  flut- 
ter in  or  flutter  out ;  let  her  be  as  beautiful  as  a  dream 


LIGHT  OF  LIFE  57 

— he  would  repair  placidly— that  is,  as  placidly  as 
other  circumstances  permitted — about  his  business. 
This  last  was  rather  vague.  He  didn't  know  just 
what  his  "business"  now  was,  or  what  it  would  be. 
However,  he  turned  his  back  upon  the  shop  of  a 
thousand  succulent  delights  and  was  about  to  move 
away,  when  some  one  spoke  to  him. 

He  regarded  this  person  attentively.  No,  it  was 
not  one  of  the  quartet  of  guardian  relatives  who  had 
overtaken  and  now  addressed  him.  This  man  was 
a  stranger,  of  grave  and  dignified  bearing,  though 
dressed  in  the  humble  attire  of  a  servant.  The 
bridegroom  had  seen  him  before.  When?  Just 
prior  to  the  stampede  ?  Yes ;  that  was  it.  They  had 
been  swept  on  together  and  the  other,  too,  had  ap- 
parently emerged  here,  or  not  far  away. 

"I  fear  you  have  torn  your  cloak,"  said  the  man 
in  respectful  accents.  "If  you  will  come  with  me, 
the  house  where  I  serve  is  near  and  I  shall  see  that 
it  is  mended." 

"Very  kind  of  you,"  returned  the  bridegroom 
mechanically.  These  courtesies  between  Moham- 
medans were  common.  He  followed  the  other.  Why 
not?  He  wanted  time  to  think.  He  was  at  liberty  and 


58       ALADDIN   FROM  BROADWAY 

he  had  not  run  away.  Should  he  return  to  his  cap- 
tors, and  what  might  afterward  await  him  ?  To  stay ; 
to  go ?  If  he  went  ? — poor  Fatma !  If  he  stayed  ? — 
poor  dervish!  Of  course  he  detested  all  women, 
but  a  man  must  treat  them  with  a  certain  considera- 
tion. He  could  picture  the  poor  girl  wringing  her 
hands  and  wailing:  "What  shall  I  do?"  What 
should  he  do?  And  yet — to  toss  a  wife  literally  to 
the  winds? — ^hum!  it  wouldn't  be  exactly  gallant. 
He  could  hear  them  all  wailing:  **Lost!  A  hus- 
band!" His  problem  was  certainly  growing.  It 
promised  to  become  a  truly  big  one.  The  sheytan 
(devil)  take  the  dyer!  The  dervish  continued  to 
walk  after  his  guide;  at  the  house  where  that  person 
served,  he  (the  bridegroom)  would,  at  least,  find  mo- 
mentary refuge  and  opportunity  to  consider.  He 
could  determine  then  what  course  was  best  or  least 
disastrous  to  pursue.  He  would  have  to  think  hard. 
The  house,  as  the  other  had  said,  was  close  by. 

A  door  opened  and  closed  on  the  dervish,  shutting 
him  from  the  street.  He  stood  in  a  flowering  space 
within  a  mansion.  A  fountain  tinkled  in  the  center 
of  the  garden,  but  he  did  not  see  it.  His  eyes  were 
fastened  on  some  one  who  arose  from  its  marble 


LIGHT   OF   LIFE  59 

edge.  At  the  same  time  the  servant  who  had  brought 
him  thither  mysteriously  disappeared.  The  bride- 
groom stared  as  at  a  vision.  He  thought  himself 
well  schooled  against  surprises,  but  this  one  upset  his 
poise.  All  his  previous  thoughts  went  a-glimmering. 
His  heart,  though  hardened,  accelerated  a  beat  or 
two.  Had  he  jumped  from  Tale  One  Thousand 
and  Two  into  Tale  One  Thousand  and  Three? 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  THE  GARDEN 

IT  WAS  the  lady  of  the  pastry-shop  who  con- 
fronted him.  He  had  no  intention  of  going  tq 
look  for  her,  but  apparently  he  had  come  to  her, 
nevertheless.  Or  he  had  been  brought  thither! 
Why?  He  felt  like  rubbing  his  eyes  or  pinching 
himself  to  see  if  it  was  really  true  that  he  stood 
there,  and  with  her — alone — in  that  lovely  flowery 
place.  A  moment  before  he  had  been  an  escaping 
bridegroom,  reveling  in  the  perplexities  of  his  new- 
found freedom;  now  he  found  himself  plunged  into 
a  different  role  and  one  that  promised  to  complicate 
further  his  already  sufficiently  embarrassing  situa- 
tion.   Not  that  he  was  thinking  of  this! 

As  on  that  other  occasion  when  he  had  met  her,  it 
was  the  immediate  personal  appeal  of  the  lady  her- 
self— or  her  attractions — which  absorbed  him.  A 
second  meeting  with  her — and  on  a  more  intimate 

60 


IN  THE   GARDEN  61 

basis — ^brought  no  esthetic  disappointment.  She 
was  radiantly  young  and  beautiful.  Moreover,  she 
made  no  pretense,  this  time,  of  concealing  her  loveli- 
ness; she  wore  no  veil  whatever,  exposing  her  face 
freely  to  the  now  unconsciously  ardent  gaze  of  the 
young  man.  Yet  she  did  this  without  effrontery — 
simply,  naturally  as  one  who  felt  no  occasion  to  be 
ashamed  or  abashed  at  Allah's  handiwork. 

He  waited  for  her  to  speak,  but  she  did  not  do  so 
at  once.  He  straightened;  then  he  endeavored  to 
look  gallant,  but  the  situation — withal  the  appeal  of 
her  beauty! — struck  him  as  rather  preposterous. 
Here  was  he,  a  newly-married  man,  in  another 
lady's  boudoir,  or  courtyard.  It  was  quite  improper, 
though  no  doubt  it  should  be  very  exhilarating.  It 
wasn't  really  the  last,  he  told  himself,  though  when 
he  looked  at  her  a  warmer  breath  seemed  sweeping 
over  him,  as  a  dreamer  in  an  oasis  feels  at  times 
a  wave  from  the  sands  wafted  through  the  inter- 
stices of  his  cool  retreat. 

"I  sent  for  you,"  she  said. 

"So  I  imagined,"  he  answered. 

"I  had  to  send  for  you." 

"I  am  honored."    He  bowed. 


62   ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

That  was  as  far  as  they  got  for  the  moment.  A 
mutual  constraint  seemed  to  fall  on  them.  Per- 
haps his  eyes  were  too  bold,  though  he  didn't  intend 
them  to  be.  What  was  he  to  do  next?  What  did 
she  expect  of  him?  Not  to  make  love  to  her,  cer- 
tainly! And  yet  she  had  sent  for  him.  There  is 
only  one  reason  why  women  do  that  in  the  Orient. 
He  gave  her  a  quick  elderly-brother  kind  of  look. 
He  would  not  have  believed  it  of  her — with  those 
eyes ! — ^wells  of  pellucid  clearness !  She,  so  young, 
so  fair!  An  intrigue!  He,  a  cynic,  ought  not  to 
be  surprised,  though.  Especially  as  he  was  a  prin- 
cipal in  the  matter.  He  ought  to  feel  flattered.  He 
should  fall  on  one  knee — press  her  little  hand,  or 
the  hem  of  her  gown.  Hum!  the  little  hand  was 
inviting  enough,  if  one  cared  for  that  role.  It 
looked  white  as  a  snowflake  against  the  warm-hued 
gown.  It  would  nestle  cosily  enough,  no  doubt,  in 
a  man's  big  palm,  the  while  he  murmured  words — 
they  hummed  in  his  mind,  on  a  sudden — such 
words !  Most  appropriate  ones ;  fine  ones ;  a  sheytan 
seemed  breathing  them  in  his  ear.  His  eyes  glowed 
with  them — the  unspoken  phrases.  Did  she  read 
and  understand  that  insidious,  if  involuntary,  mas- 
culine, telepathic  communication? 


IN   THE   GARDEN  63 

She  should,  logically,  all  in  all  considered,  have 
received  it  gladly  and  responsively.  Instead  she 
seemed  to  shrink  from  it.  Some  instinct  now  ar- 
rested the  trend  of  that  too  impetuous  and  unworthy 
message  in  the  man's  brain.  His  gaze  narrowed 
more  critically — not  quite  impersonally  yet,  how- 
ever— ^the  situation  was  too  extraordinary  and 
bizarre!  He  had  to  get  back  to  the  primal  consid- 
eration— she  had  sent  for  him — she  met  him  alone, 
unveiled.  He  shook  his  head ;  he  began  to  feel  severe 
and  stem  again ;  figuratively  he  waved  aside  the  imp- 
like sheytan  who  would  have  gone  on  with  uncom- 
mendable  promptings.  Under  the  circumstances  it  is 
not  surprising  that  he  should  behave  stupidly. 

"I  am  here,"  he  said.  He  couldn't  think  of  any- 
thing else  to  say. 

"I  thank  you,"  she  answered.  Nothing  ardent 
about  that !  Nothing  ardent  about  the  eyes !  Nc»th- 
ing  ardent  about  the  inflexible  young  figure!  But 
logic — what  a  cynic  is  logic! — battled  with  appear- 
ances. She  had  not  asked  him  here — there  was  no 
reason  why  she  should  have  asked  him  here  for  the 
interchange  of  mere  empty  platitudes.  He  remem- 
bered his  own  daring  words  to  her  before  the  pastry- 
shop.    Did  they  suggest  a  solution?    Modesty — ^his 


64   ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

own — forbade,  and  yet — women  sometimes  did 
take  sudden  and  most  extraordinary  fancies.  Had 
she  sent  for  him  because — ?  Impossible!  He,  the 
beggar ;  she,  the  fine  lady !  It  would  be  like  one  of 
those  fantastic  tales  of  the  romance  reciters  to 
hashish-steeped  brains — a  tale  of  the  wonderful 
princess  and  the  poor  porter  variety!  No,  no,  no! 
He  would  have  dismissed  the  possibility  but  there 
was  that  miserable  sheytan  again  who  always  likes 
to  be  present  on  these  occasions  whispering  absurd 
fancies  in  his  brain. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "are  you  married?" 

"I  am." 

He  shook  his  head  mournfully.  "Thought  so," 
he  muttered.    "Thank  you  for  the  cake !" 

"What  cake?" 

"The  one  the  dog  got."    Listlessly. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  she  said. 

He  did  not  explain,  nor  did  she  ask  further  his 
meaning.  She  did  not  know  him ;  she  did  not  recog- 
nize the  dervish  in  him.  Of  course  not !  He  should 
have  known  she  wouldn't ;  he  did  know,  really.  He 
had  merely  thrown  out  the  words  in  a  casual  hope- 
less sort  of  way,  because  he  was  mentally  so  en- 


IN  THE   GARDEN  63 

tangled  by  the  divers  and  complicated  webs  enmesh- 
ing him. 

She  was  now  nervously  clasping  and  unclasping 
her  hands.  She  had  forgotten  his  last  words ;  most 
likely  she  had  hardly  heard  them ;  her  mind  seemed 
wholly  absorbed  with  thoughts  of  her  own.  Though 
she  looked  at  the  young  man  she  seemed  scarcely 
to  see  him.  Her  gaze  was  the  antithesis  to  what  the 
poets  would  have  it  under  these  romantic  circum- 
stances, for  was  he  not  handsome,  young  and  at- 
tractive enough,  as  men  are  attractive  to  women? 
Yet  he  suddenly  experienced  the  feeling  that  he  was 
but  a  lay  figure  in  her  eyes — something  to  be  moved, 
shifted,  adjusted  or  set,  to  meet  certain  require- 
ments, or  needs.  It  was  a  descent  from  the  sublime, 
but  he  didn't  feel  much  hurt  about  it.  After  all, 
a  lay  figure  has  a  charming  irresponsibility  of  its 
own.  It  doesn't  have  to  take  the  initiative;  it  is 
a  passive  creation.  It  is  not  expected  to  answer 
for  anything.  The  dervish  smiled;  she  was  far  off 
now — not  really,  but  like  a  figure  in  a  picture  you 
half  close  your  eyes  to  look  at.  He  was  content  to 
contemplate ;  he  permitted  his  brain  to  stop  working 
too  actively. 


66        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"I  sent  my  servant  to  find  you,"  she  went  on. 

He  nodded.  "He  found  me."  These  words  im- 
mediately struck  him  as  being  superfluous,  like  his 
presence  there. 

"I  told  him  to  go  to  the  mosque  and  fetch  you," 
she  continued  more  hurriedly. 

"To  the  mosque  ?"  he  murmured  with  a  faint  in- 
flection of  surprise.    "Why  there?" 

"Because  he  would  find  you  there !" 

"But  how  did  you  know?" 

"I  knew  you  were  to  go  to — to  pray." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I'm  supposed  to  be  praying  now." 
His  accents  were  frivolous.  He  seemed  to  have 
jumped  from  one  absurdity  into  another. 

"My  servant  was  to  say  words  that  would  bring 
you  here,"  she  went  on  quickly. 

"Words?— ah,  what  words?"  Dully. 

"Surely  you  know — since  you  are  here." 

The  dervish  made  a  deprecatory  gesture.  "May- 
be I  ought  to  know,  but  I  don't.  I  don't  seem  to 
know  very  much,"  he  added  humbly.  "I  didn't  get 
as  far  as  the  mosque." 

"You  didn't?"  she  said. 

"No.   With  the  best  intentions  I  was  carried  off. 


IN   THE  GARDEN  67 

But  it  was  not  my  fault!    Blame  the  donkeys!" 

"I  don't  understand."    She  spoke  wonderingly. 

He  explained.  The  humor  of  the  situation 
seemed  now  to  appeal  to  him,  but  she  didn't  even 
smile.  "I — I  thought  it  was  soon  for  you  to  be 
here,'*  she  said. 

"I  tore  my  coat.  Your  man  offered  to  have  it 
mended  if  I  followed  him." 

"I  see  now."    Her  eyes  expressed  enlightenment. 

"Wish  I  did,"  he  muttered. 

"That  was  why  it  was  so  easy — to  get  you  here, 
I  mean."    Her  gaze  studying  him  clearly. 

"Yes,  it  was  just  as  easy!"    Helplessly. 

"I  feared  he  might  have  difficulty,  though  I  hoped 
and  prayed  he  would  not.  He  was  to  kneel  near  you 
In  the  great  mosque  and  whisper  words  to  attract 
your  attention.  He  was  to  make  you  come."  More 
excitedly. 

"And  why  should  you  have  wanted  to  see  me — 
so  much  ?"  said  the  man. 

"As  I  told  you,  it  was  necessary."     She  came 
nearer,  the  clear  eyes  shining  with  suppressed  feel- 
ing.   "There  is  something  I  want  you  to  do." 
.     "Ask  it!"    He  spoke  readily.    "But  first,  if  you 


68        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

will  pardon  my  curiosity,  how  did  you  happen  to 
know  I  was  going  to  the  mosque  at  all  ?" 

"I  couldn't  help  knowing." 

"Then  you  are  a  friend  of  the  family  ?"  he  cried. 

"I  am  your  wife,"  she  said  simply. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  SURPRISE 

"TV  /TY  WIFE!"  He  looked  at  her.  "So—? 
X  V A  Ah — ?"  He  tried  not  to  appear  sur- 
prised. "My — "  He  stopped  and  looked  at  her 
again.  "Quite  so !  I've  just  been  married.  Got  to 
have  a  wife.  Can't  be  married  without  one !"  He 
studied  her  more  closely.  "You!  Pardon  me — " 
He  stroked  his  chin.  First  she  had  attracted  him  in 
front  of  the  pastry-shop — though  she  didn't  know 
about  that! — and  then  she  had  married  him,  or  he 
had  married  her,  or  they  had  married  him  to  her. 
It  didn't  much  matter  how  it  had  come  about,  only 
it  had  happened.    "You — my — "  he  began  again. 

"Is  there  any  necessity  of  repeating  it  ?"  she  said. 
There  was  a  flush  on  her  face. 

"Not  at  all!  Not  at  all!"  he  answered  absently. 
His  "wife"  was  handsome;  there  was  no  denying 
that.  A  bride  for  a  sultan,  if  he  wanted  a  bride; 
but  he,  the  dervish,  didn't!  He  was  sure  of  that. 
But  that  confounded  dyer  had  told  him  he  was  to 

69 


70        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

be  married  and  yet  "not  be  married" !  He  was  not 
to  see  the  bride.  They  had  deceived  him.  He  ought 
to  feel  very  indignant ;  he  had  a  right  to.  He  tried 
to  imagine  himself  both  indignant  and  annoyed. 
Why,  the  girl  was  even  lovelier  than  he  had  thought ! 
All  the  more  reprehensible  on  their  part  for  hood- 
winking him  like  this !  Or  stay,  perhaps  they  didn't 
know?  Most  likely  not!  This  was  his  wife's  doing 
— hers,  alone — she  wanted  to  see  him. 

His  brain  was  now  a  whirlpool ;  ideas  danced  and 
bobbed  about  in  it  like  chips  on  the  seething  waters. 
He  began  to  feel  mildly  intoxicated,  not  with  her, 
or  her  beauty,  but  with  the  novelty  of  the  moment. 
His  wife! — his  bride! — his  honeymoon!  It  prom- 
ised to  be  more  exciting  than  he  had  dreamed.  And 
he  had  looked  forward  to  a  calm  and  placid  period  in 
the  seclusion  of  the  dyer's  house,  where  tobacco  and 
coffee  and  other  creature  comforts  of  the  lot  of  a 
benedict,  or  of  a  man  who  is  "married  without  be- 
ing married",  were  to  have  been  his  for  the  asking. 
The  dervish  sighed.  What  we  imagine,  what  we 
dream,  is  seldom  realized!  His  gaze  returned  to 
Fatma  and  lingered.  He  did  not  have  to  exercise 
any  great  effort  of  will  to  keep  on  looking  at  her. 


THE   SURPRISE  71 

"You  were  telling  me?  Where  were  we?"  he 
said.  "Which  leads  me  to  ask  very  pertinently,  and 
I  trust  not  impertinently,  where  am  I?"  looking 
around  him. 

"You  are  in  my  house." 

"Your  house?    I  don't  understand." 

"It  belonged  to  my  own  mother." 

"But  aren't  you  supposed  to  be  at  your  step- 
mother's— at  her  home  ?" 

"I  am." 

"Then  why—?" 

"Is  it  not  apparent?    I  came  here  to  see  you?" 

"And  your  stepmother  doesn't  know  ?" 

"She  doesn't." 

"Nor—?" 

"Any  of  the  others !"  She  spoke  with  sudden  pas- 
sionate impatience.  Her  face  at  that  moment  was 
as  wilful  as  it  was  proud. 

He  looked  down  uncertainly.  "Afraid  you've 
been  very  imprudent,"  he  muttered.  "A  rendezvous 
with  your  own  husband !"  He  gazed  at  her  sardon- 
ically. "You  really  shouldn't — I  mean,  you  ought 
not  to  have  done  it." 

"You  mean  I  have  been  unmindful  of  the  risk  to 


fj2,       ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

you?  You  fear?"  The  fine  eyes  could  blaze,  the 
red  lips  curl.  How  straight  the  slender  figure;  like 
a  young  palm ! 

"Hum!    And  what  if  I  do?" 

"I  did  not  think  of  that." 

"You  didn't  think?  When  did  you  think  about 
it  at  all?  Ah,  when  you  were  studying  me  from 
behind  the  screen !"  She  did  not  deny.  "And  what 
if  I  should  say  I  were  a  little  afraid?"  he  added 
with  a  smile. 

"I  should  try  to  see  if  your  cupidity  was  not 
greater  than  your  fears,"  she  returned  disdainfully. 

"Cupidity  ?  Oh,  you  mean  you  would  try  to  buy 
me?" 

"Of  course." 

"With  gold?" 

"Gold,  or  jewels.    I  have  both." 

"And  you  think  you  could  do  that — buy  me  ?" 

"Of  course,"  she  said  again.  Her  tone  was  mat- 
ter-of-fact. It  seemed  to  imply  that  he  wasted 
time  in  useless  quibbling. 

He  shook  his  head  approvingly.  How  he  had 
misjudged  her!  There  was  no  thought  of  love- 
making  in  her  eyes.    No  tender  errand  of  the  heart 


THE   SURPRISE  73 

had  brought  her  here.  Her  mission,  whatever  it 
could  be,  was  of  a  practical  nature.  She  wanted  to 
buy  something.  He  was  like  a  tagir,  or  merchant 
who  had  goods  to  sell.  She  was  there  to  bid.  Would 
he  have  to  say  in  oriental  fashion:  "Receive  it  as 
a  gift,  my  dear  patron,"  and  then  prepare  himself 
to  bargain  to  the  bitter  end?  Those  beautiful  eyes 
were  shopping  eyes.  Better  so;  far  better  so!  He 
heaved  a  commendatory  sigh. 

"But  what  if — ^just  suppose  the  possibility — you 
couldn't  buy,  what  you  wanted  to  buy,  from  me?" 
he  threw  out  tentatively. 

"I  am  rich,"  she  said  disdainfully. 

She  had  always  an  answer.  This  was  certainly  a 
simple  one.  It  said  plainer  than  words  that  it  was, 
or  would  be,  all  a  question  of  "price"  with  him. 
And  she  was  prepared  to  pay.  Her  manner  was 
as  haughty  as  that  of  a  grand  lady.  She  made  him 
feel  very  small,  though  he  was  taller  by  a  good  deal 
than  she.  He  looked  down  on  her  from  his  superior 
height  with  a  certain  patient  apathy.  Her  hair,  like 
the  wing  of  a  dark  bird,  shaded  the  fair  face,  empha- 
sizing its  proud  pallor  and  beauty.  Above  the  eyes, 
which  seemed  to  say  they  would  have  what  they 


74       ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

wanted,  her  brows  were  as  two  straight  soft  feathers 
that  had  fallen  from  the  wing.  The  lashes  curled 
long  and  enticingly  beneath.  They  were  most  ro- 
mantic lashes — for  bargaining.  A  poet  would  have 
fallen  prone  before  them.  The  dervish,  though, 
stood  his  ground. 

"What  would  you  have  me  do  ?"  he  said.  "Maybe 
it  won't  cost  you  so  much  as  you  think.  I  am  not 
very  avaricious.  My  wants  are  simple.  I — I  might 
even  do  it  for  nothing." 

"For  nothing?"  she  repeated  incredulously. 

"Yes;  without  charge.     That  surprises  you?" 

"It  does." 

"You  think  every  man  is  to  be  bought  and  sold 
like — "  He  stopped;  his  voice  had  begun  to  have 
a  slightly  indignant  ring.     Ridiculous! 

Her  lashes  had  lifted.  A  faint  look  of  curiosity 
shone  in  the  eyes  they  so  fully  revealed.  He  came 
down  to  the  level  of  his  own  position  abruptly. 
Hadn't  he  bargained  with  them — that  cursed  dyer 
and  the  other  fellow?  Oh,  folly  of  follies!  Was 
he  not  but  a  mustahall — a  substitute  husband? 
Could  the  lady  do  "business"  with  him?  Of  course 
— from  her  standpoint !    From  his? — had  he  a  right 


THE   SURPRISE  75 

to  a  standpoint  ?  Would  he  not  have  to  look  at  the 
situation  from  her  point  of  view?  Had  they  not 
robbed  him  of  his  identity,  his  own  personality? 
Had  they  not  shorn  him  of  all  the  finer  instincts? 
He  must  act,  seem  and  comport  himself  like  a  grace- 
less, bold  young  scoundrel  of  the  desert.  He  tried 
to  look  brigandish;  he  made  a  special  effort  as  her 
eyes  were  now  studying  his  features.  He  sought  to 
temper  in  his  own  gaze  any  casual  admiration  for 
her  charms  with  the  furtive  restless  gleam  of  an 
outlaw  on  the  lookout  for  stray  jewels.  He  even 
glanced  at  the  lady's  fingers;  they  were  devoid  of 
ornament.  He  endeavored  to  appear  disappointed, 
but  only  succeeded  in  looking  foolish. 

"Want  me  to  do  something,  do  you?"  he  mur- 
mured.   "Well,  what  is  it?" 

She  seemed  to  hesitate.  The  fine  face  expressed  a 
shadow  of  trouble  or  embarrassment.  Perhaps  it 
was  not  easy  to  tell  him,  this  paid  mustahall,  what 
she  wanted?  Perhaps  she  would  have  to  unveil 
some  secret  one  would  not  reveal  willingly  to  such 
as  he.  But  she  must  have  gone  over  all  that;  she 
must  already  have  decided  to  pursue  this  course.  It 
is.  however,  easier  to  determine  on  a  certain  plan 


;6       ALADDIN   FROM  BROADWAY 

than'  it  is  to  pursue  it — when  the  inevitable  moment 
for  action  arrives.  The  lady  still  hesitated.  Her 
face  even  flushed.  He  saw  and  divined,  and  straight- 
way he  forgot  himself  for  just  a  moment.  He  shed 
the  degrading  spirit  of  the  mustahall;  he  emerged 
from  that  part  as  from  a  detestable  cocoon.  The 
trouble  in  her  eyes  had  flashed  like  a  wireless  mes- 
sage through  the  air  and  somewhere,  beneath  his 
gay  kamees,  had  found  a  receiving  station. 

"What  is  it  ?"  he  cried.  And  then— "Trust  me," 
he  added  fervently. 

"Trust — ^you?"  said  the  lady  with  undisguised 
amazement.    He  came  to  himself  with  a  start. 

"Seems  to  me  you've  got  to,"  he  observed  bluntly. 
He  was  angry  with  himself — ^maybe  slightly  an- 
noyed with  her.  Again  he  strove  to  look  like  an  un- 
scrupulous villain.  It  was  an  anomalous  role. 
Fancy  trying  to  make  your  own  wife  think  you 
worse  than  you  are!  It  was  against  all  precedent. 
Husbands — especially  newly-wedded  ones — always 
want  their  wives  to  think  them  a  little  better  than 
they  are.  No  wonder  he  found  his  role  a  trying  one ! 
It  was  unnatural;  that's  what  it  was;  unnatural. 
But  he  hadn't  wanted  to  be  married,  anyway.    At 


THE   SURPRISE  ^^ 

least,  she  might  be  frank  and  help  him  out.  Had  he 
awakened  her  suspicions ;  did  she  find  him  different 
from  what  she  had  expected — the  conventional 
mustahall  ?    That  would  be  awkward — deuced ! 

"You  want  me  to  do  something,"  he  went  on.  "Is 
it  something  your  stepmother  would  approve  of  ?" 

"No,  no !"    No  doubt  of  the  emphasis. 

"Ah,  then,  it  is  something  surreptitious,"  he  mur- 
mured brilliantly. 

"Would  I  come  here  if  it  were  not  ?"  she  retorted. 

"Your  stepmother  is  your  enemy?  She  has  you 
in  her  power?"  he  went  on.  She  did  not  answer; 
the  dark  brows,  drawn  a  little  closer  together,  gave 
her  eyes  a  more  intent  look.  He  walked  thought- 
fully away  a  step  or  two,  then  turned.  "Maybe 
I  can  guess  the  source  of  your  trouble,"  he  said  more 
lightly.  "You  have  been  a  little  dubious  about  the 
advisability  of  this — this  expedient?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Her  breast  was  stirring 
slightly. 

"This  marriage!" 

"No!" 

"Of  course,  not  the  marriage  itself  with  me — 
that  was  necessary.    It  wasn't  quite  that  I  meant. 


78        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

What  I  was  about  to  say  was,  you  have  entertained 
certain  doubts  concerning  possible  consequences  be- 
cause of  the  need  of  your  taking  me,"  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand  intended  to  be  reassuring,  "for  your 
husband.  The  whole  trouble  is  right  there.  You 
had  to  have  what  you  didn't  want.  I  sympathize 
with  your  position.  And  when  you  got  what  you 
had  to  have,  but  didn't  want,  you  asked  yourself 
what  if  that  which  you  didn't  want,  you  would  have 
to  keep  on  having  ?" 

She  caught  her  breath  quickly.  "I  don't  believe 
I  understand." 

"Your  mind  is  naturally  timorous  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. What  woman's  wouldn't  be?  That  is, 
what  woman  of  delicate  sensibilities?" 

"Will  you  make  yourself  plainer?"  she  said  dis- 
dainfully. This  mustahall  promised  to  be  a  most 
presumptuous  fellow. 

"I  shall  try,"  he  laughed.  "You  have  heard  of 
false  mustahalls,  those  who  do  not  keep  to  the  strict 
letter  of  their  bargain?"  Her  look  changed.  "You 
have  feared  I  might  prove  such  a  one !"  Gaily.  Her 
eyes  seemed  insistently  to  bid  him  go  on.    "These 


THE   SURPRISE  79 

fellows  fall  in  love,  or  pretend  to  fall  in  love,  for 
selfish  reasons,  with  those  they  have  married." 

"Yes  ?"  Her  voice  was  low,  intense.  She  looked 
at  him  as  if  he  exercised,  at  that  moment,  a  kind  of 
uncanny  fascination  for  her. 

"Sometimes  these  substitute  husbands  have  to  be 
paid  very  high  in  piasters  to  divorce  those  whom 
they  claim  have  thrown  a  spell  over  them.  They  are 
sad  rascals.  They  sigh — ^they  profess  reluctance  to 
go — but  they  go  in  the  end." 

"Well  ?"  she  said  in  a  still  small  voice. 

"Do  I  have  to  explain  further?  The  source  of 
your  anxiety  is  as  apparent  as  yonder  cloud  in  the 
sky.  You  fear  that  now  you  are  my  wife — ha! 
ha ! —  I  may  refuse  to  divorce  you!'* 

The  red  lips  parted  suddenly  as  if  to  speak,  but 
no  sound  fell  from  them.  The  man  smiled  know- 
ingly. 

"It  wouldn't  be  hard  for  a  husband  of  the  moment 
to  pretend  that,  in  this  case,"  he  said  lightly.  "That 
he  had  fallen  in  love  with  you,  I  mean !"  Shades  of 
the  roses,  how  her  face  glowed!  How  the  deep 
eyes  flashed  with  sudden  fire !    And  the  proud  head 


8o   ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

tipped  back!  He  lifted  an  admonishing  hand.  "But 
have  no  fear!  I  am  not  falling  in  love,  or  even 
pretending  to  fall  in  love  with  any  one — ^not  even, 
my  wife!"  With  a  bow.  "Though  she  is  so — '* 
He  paused  on  the  verge  of  a  compliment.  "There- 
fore, reassure  yourself.  Dismiss  these  fears.  I  am 
a  true  mustahall."  Tapping  his  breast.  "I  have 
made  my  bargain  and  I  keep  to  it.  I  do  not  want  a 
double  commission.  It — it  might  ruin  my  business 
in  the  future.  You  see  I  make  a  profession  of 
marrying  and  then  unmarrying.  And  give  a  musta- 
hall a  bad  name — "  He  had  to  explain  his  mag- 
nanimity. "You  understand?  He  would  court  a 
diminishing  patronage ;  is  it  not  so  ?" 

She  regarded  him  as  if  spellbound.  The  shadow 
of  the  cloud  passed  between  them  and  vanished  up 
the  side  of  the  wall.  The  fountain  tinkled  most 
musically.  It  was  the  only  sound.  A  big  buccaneer 
of  a  bee  stood  almost  on  its  head  in  its  greedy  de- 
sire to  extract  all  the  honey  from  a  wee  modest 
rose.  The  falling  water  was  soothing.  It  seemed 
to  sing  a  sweet  little  song — a  kind  of  dbmestic 
lullaby.  What  better  world  than  here? — the  blue 
sky  overhead? — ^the  scent  of  the    flowers    around 


THE   SURPRISE  8i 

«ou? — it  seemed  to  murmur.  The  dervish  listened. 
It  was  a  very  hypnotic  little  fountain.  It  had  a 
voice  that  entered  your  ears  and  filtered  down  into 
your  breast.  It  made  you  lift  up  your  head  some- 
what, the  way  callow  youthful  people  do,  when  re- 
calling favorite  lines  of  poetry  seems  a  worthy  oc- 
cupation. Did  its  insidious  murmur  include  the 
lady?    Or  was  she  but  an  unwitting  part? 

The  dervish,  or  newly  married  bridegroom,  gave 
his  shoulders  a  charateristic  jerk. 

"This  is  your  house,  I  believe  you  said."  He 
spoke  in  a  dispassionate  tone.     "Who  lives  here?" 

"A  caretaker  and  his  wife,"  she  said  me- 
chanically. 

"Call  them  in."    Incisively. 

"Why?" 

"Wliat  is  to  be  done,  should  be  done  at  once. 
They  shall  be  witnesses." 

"What  do  you  mean?  What  are  you  going  to 
do?"  Breathlessly.  He  had  stepped  toward  the 
house. 

"What  I  should  do;  what  I  have  agreed  to  do!" 
Briskly.  "I  am  going  to  divorce  you — set  you  free, 
now — at  once!" 


82        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"But,"  she  began,  "that  is  just  what  I — " 
A  loud  knocking  at  the  gate  interrupted.     She 
stood  very  still.    The  man  looked  around — ^toward 
the  gate.    "Do  you  think  it  is — ?" 

She  did  not  answer.  Her  servant,  the  caretaker, 
appeared  from  the  house.  He  regarded  his  mistress 
inquiringly.  She  held  her  fingers  to  her  lips  as 
if  cautioning  him  to  be  silent,  then  with  a  gesture 
indicated  the  gate.    The  servant  walked  toward  it. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  CALLER 

"T  T  T  HO  is  there  ?"  The  servant  called  out. 

V  V  A  voice  outside  answered,  then  asked  a 
question.    The  servant  replied  negatively. 

"But  my  mistress  insists,"  came  in  louder  ac- 
cents from  the  other  side  of  the  gate. 

"Tell  your  mistress  that  I,  the  caretaker,  and  my 
wife  are  here  alone.    Peace  go  with  you!" 

"And  with  you!"  returned  the  man  in  the  street 
with  but  little  zest  Then  footsteps  shuffled  away 
as  if  reluctant  to  be  gone.  The  servant  stepped  to 
his  mistress. 

"It  was — '"  He  murmured  a  name  and  once 
more  disappeared.  The  bridegroom  gazed  after  him 
admiringly. 

"My  wife  certainly  has  loyal  servants,"  he  mut- 
tered. "Falsehoods  flow  from  his  lips  like  oil." 
She  did  not  seem  to  hear ;  her  face  expressed  a  new 

83 


84   ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

anxiety,  and —  "Some  one  from  your  step- 
mother's?" he  asked  quickly. 

"Yes." 

"They  have  noted  your  absence  ?" 

Again  she  answered  mechanically  in  the  affirm- 
ative. That  he  was  at  large  was  also  probably 
known,  by  this  time,  at  the  home  of  Light  of  Life. 

"Will  they  look  for  me  here?" 

"They  might."  She  continued  to  stand  with  head 
down-bent. 

"Then  they  would  have  to  suspect  you  of  wanting 
to  see  me?"    Categorically. 

"It  is  possible — it  is  even  probable." 

"They  must  not  find  me  here."  Emphatically. 

She  raised  her  dark  tragic  eyes.  "You  do  fear, 
then,  musfahall!"  she  said  with  unspeakable  dis- 
dain. 

"I  might  reply  you  should  think  of  the  conse- 
quences to  you,  if  I  am  discovered  in  this  place." 
More  gently. 

"Well,  well,  you  are  right  to  fear,"  she  went  on-, 
as  if  not  catching  his  words. 

"You  mean  they  would  not  spare  me  ?"  He  pro- 
fessed dismay. 


A   CALLER  85. 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"I  can  guess."  And  he  could.  Some  one  would 
be  very  jealous  of  her.  The  girl's  beauty  was  of 
the  type  that  fans  a  flame;  her  witchery  would  go 
to  certain  masculine  brains  like  the  rich  wine  of 
Lebanon.  Daggers  and  scimitars  loomed  large 
upon  the  hymeneal  horizon  of  the  dervish's  im- 
iTiediate  future.  No  cupid's  arrow,  but  a  big  shining 
blade  would  probably  pierce  his  heart.  At  least,  his 
first  matrimonial  experience  promised  not  to  be  dull 
or  monotonous.  They  would  not  sit  and  yawn  at 
each  other.  He  wondered  absently  what  she  would 
do  if  the  worst  happened  to  him?  Would  she  scream, 
or  would  she  laugh?  The  latter  would  perhaps  be 
more  appropriate.  She  had  a  most  musical  laugh. 
He  seemed  to  hear  it  again  wafted  down  from  a 
housetop,  or  from  the  heavens.  Was  it  less  than 
a  day  since  he  had  looked  up  at  the  pink  pulsating 
star?    What  a  big  full  day  it  had  been! 

"No,  they  would  not  spare  you,"  she  said  calmly, 
fatalistically  and  conclusively. 

"They?"  he  repeated.  That,  of  course,  meant 
"him" — his  predecessor  at  the  altar!  The  dervish 
regarded  her  in  a  far-away  manner.  Somehow,  it 


86        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

didn't  seem  possible  she  had  ever  been  married  be- 
fore; he  didn't  know  why  it  didn't,  but  it  didn't. 
The  impression  was  very  strong,  though  he  couldn't 
exactly  explain  it.  Only  it  was  as  if  she  appeared 
in  a  role  she  did  not  fit.  She  was  so  very  young, 
so  girlish-looking,  despite  her  proud  ways — so — so 
— everything  that  didn't  harmonize,  or  dovetail  with 
what  was !  But,  after  all,  so  much  that  was,  seemed 
impossible. 

"That  would  be  too  bad,"  he  remarked,  jumping 
back  to  her  last  words. 

"I  don't  believe  you  are  afraid,"  she  said  sud- 
denly. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am.  Only  perhaps  I  am  forgetting 
to  show  it.    So  much  else  to  think  about !" 

"You  do  but  jest,"  she  said  haughtily.  And  yet 
did  her  eyes  gleam  on  him  with  a  little  more  favor? 

"I  assure  you  I  am  feeling  most  uncomfortable," 
he  remarked. 

"Why  do  you  say  what  is  not  so  ?"  Severely. 

"Wish  I  knew  what  was  so  and  what  wasn't!" 
he  murmured.  "For  example,  why  should  they  cut 
a  man's  throat  for  seeing  his  own  wife?  Most 
illogical !    Now,  if  it  were  some  other  man's  wife — '' 


A   CALLER  87 

He  paused  abruptly.  "Which  reminds  me  there 
was  something  I  was  going  to  do  when  we  were  in- 
terrupted. If  you  will  kindly  overlook  the  un- 
avoidable delay,  I  shall  now  proceed  to — " 

"No;  no;  that  is  just  what  you  mustn't  do,". ex- 
claimed the  girl  feverishly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon — " 

"That  is  why  I  sent  for  you — that  you  would  not 
do  it!" 

"Not  ?"  He  blinked  slightly.  The  sun  was  very 
bright  here  and  shone  in  his  eyes.  "You  mean  I — 
that  you  want  me,  not  to  divorce  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Not  to  set  you  free?" 

"Yes.    I  wish  to  remain  your  wife!" 

He  lifted  his  hand  to  his  brow.  He  had  been 
treated  to  a  few  surprises  before,  but  this  one 
seemed  of  rather  larger  dimensions  than  the  others. 
Had  he  heard  correctly?  As  far  as  he  knew  there 
was  nothing  wrong  with  his  hearing.  He  turned 
the  words  over  in  his  mind.  They  were  certainly 
simple  and  direct  enough;  there  was  no  chance  for 
a  misunderstanding.  She  wanted  to  continue  to  be 
his  wife!     She!     He  was  not  to  be  permitted  to 


88       ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY. 

remain  a  mere  nuptial  chimera.  He  was,  if  she 
had  her  way,  to  become  a  connubial  fixture.  He 
looked  at  her  with  a  smile — a  rather  silly  one. 

"Is  it  a  jest?"  he  thought  of  saying,  but  he 
didn't.  A  few  moments  before  she  had  accused  him 
of  jesting.  He  knew  she,  however,  was  in  deadly 
earnest,  tragically  so.  Her  expression  left  no 
doubt  in  his  mind  on  that  score. 

"I  wish  to  remain  your  wife!" 

The  words  were  reechoing  in  his  brain.  The 
fountain  seemed  to  whisper  them — the  leaves  to 
murmur  them.  Under  some  circumstances,  a  man 
might  have  felt  flattered  by  such  a  declaration  from 
one  whose  provocative  graces  were  comparable  to 
those  of  the  fabled  horeyehs  of  Paradise,  but  the 
dervish  hugged  no  pleasing  unction  of  this  nature 
to  his  soul. 

"Would  you  mind  explaining?"  he  said  in  as 
matter-of-fact  a  tone  as  he  could  muster. 

"Is — is  it  necessary?"  she  asked. 

"No — a.  I  suppose  not.  Explanations,  a  waste 
of  time !"  Ironically. 

"That  is  quite  true."  She  accepted  his  words 
literally.    "We  shall  come  to  an  understanding,  the 


A   CALLER  89 

sooner."  Her  tone  was  almost  businesslilce.  She 
had  regained,  in  a  great  measure,  her  equipoise.  He 
regarded  her  with  mild  wonder.  Her  character 
seemed  to  develop  amazingly;  her  resourcefulness 
was  remarkable.  Her  determination  promised  to 
brook  no  opposition;  to  sweep  aside  all  obstacles. 
His  wife  was  not  a  "wishy-washy"  being.  Quite 
the  contrary!  "What  I  expect  from  you  modifies, 
of  course,  your  original  arrangement,"  she  con- 
tinued. "Therefore,  you  should  receive  extra  com- 
pensation. I  have  come  prepared.  Here" — 
thrusting  her  hand  into  the  bosom  of  her  dress — 
"are  jewels,  a  fortune  to  such  as  you." 

The  man  looked  at  them.  She  was  no  niggardly 
pay-mistress — that  was  certain.  And  what  a  set- 
ting for  the  gleaming  and  glistening  baubles — that 
soft  rosy  palm  she  held  extended!  It  seemed  to 
invite  kisses  rather  than  to  offer  jewels.  Did  she 
notice  now  an  involuntary  quickening  of  his  gaze 
and  misinterpret  it?  "Well,  why  don't  you  take 
them  since  they  attract  you  so?  Extra  work,  extra 
compensation !"  The  red  lips  curving.  "Even  you, 
who  professed  to  being  a  conscientious  mustahall, 
need  have  no  compunctions."   From  her  accents  it 


90   AtADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

was  evident  she  did  not  think  he  would  have  any, 
and  as  she  spoke  she  let  the  gems  slip  from  her  hand 
to  a  brass  table.  He  could  take  them  when  he 
would.  But  the  fellow  seemed  prone  to  prolong 
the  interview  unduly.  Perhaps  he  was  deeper  than 
she  thought. 

"It  is  asking  a  good  deal,"  he  temporized.  *1t 
is  more  than  I  bargained  for."  It  was,  indeed!  "I — 
I  wouldn't  have  entered,  at  all,  upon  this  tender 
relationship,"  he  blundered  on,  "had  I  not  under- 
stood—" 

"You  were  to  divorce  me  immediately  after- 
ward?" 

"Exactly!" 

"But  why  should  you  be  so  particular?"  Her 
voice  began  to  show  the  nervous  tension  she  labored 
under.  The  little  hand  that  had  extended  the 
jewels  was  now  tightly  closed  at  her  side.  "A  wife, 
more  or  less,  what  does  it  matter  to  you?  You  go 
away ;  you  forget  about  it ;  you  can  marry  as  many 
times  as  you  please.  It  is  the  law — the  law  for 
men!  Even  the  lowest!  As  for  me,  I  remain;  I 
am  still  a  wife — yours!  No  one  can  gainsay  that." 
There  was  a  glad  thrill  in  her  voice. 


"Here  are  jewels,  a  fortune  to  such  as  you" 


A   CALLER  91 

"You  call  that  being  a  wife?"  He  could  not  re- 
sist the  desire  to  scoff.  Her  satisfaction  was  too  pre- 
posterous. She  seemed  fairly  to  exult  in  that  way  of 
being  married — of  becoming  a  kind  of  phantom 
bride! — she  who  was  not  a  phantom  at  all,  but  a 
radiant  and  most  alluring  actuality.  "I  either  want 
a  wife  or  I  don't  want  one.  I  certainly  don't  want 
one  that  way.  Besides,  why  is  it  necessary?  It 
isn't.  Didn't  you  weep  to  be  taken  back  by  the 
other?" 

"What?" 

"Weep!  And  how  can  you  go  back  to  him,  if 
you  remain  my  wife?"  he  went  on  glibly.  "You 
can't  be  the  wife  of  both  of  us — ^that  is,  at  the  same 
time.  A  man  may  have  two  wives,  but  a  wife  can't 
have  two  husbands." 

"Who  told  you  I — ^^vept  to  be  taken  back?"  said 
the  girl  in  low  tense  tones. 

"El  Sabbagh." 

"He  lied."     Succinctly. 

"Eh?"  The  dervish  stared  at  the  slender  figure, 
the  uplifted  head.  "You  didn't  want  to  be  taken 
back,"  he  said  incredulously. 

"I  didn't;  I  don't!"     She  forgot  apparently,  for 


92   ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

the  moment,  that  he  was  only  a  mustahall,  and  spoke 
with  burning  intensity.  Though  she  stood  very 
still  she  seemed  quivering  with  emotion.    The  man 

could  not  but  be  acutely  aware  of  it. 

"Then  why,"  he  asked  helplessly,  "did  you 
marry  me?" 

"It  was  you,  or  some  one  else.  The  bride  has  no 
voice.  The  wekeel  speaks.  The  bride  may  be 
wringing  her  hands  above.  She  is  forced  to  marry, 
if  others  will  it." 

"Hum!"  he  muttered.  Perhaps  she  had  been 
"wringing  her  hands,"  because  she  had  to  marry 
him.  And  now  that  she  had  him,  and  could  get  rid 
of  him,  she  didn't  want  to. 

"A  girl?  What  is  she?"  There  was  a  smolder- 
ing resentment  in  the  wonderful  passionate  eyes. 
"Nothing!  But  a  man — any  man — even  the  meanest 
mustahall,  has  every  privilege  under  the  law.  He 
can  marry  and  divorce  at  will.  Or  he  can  keep 
his  wife  as  long  as  he  wishes.  So  it  is  necessary 
to  deal  with  such  as  you,"  mockingly,  "to  buy  my 
freedom !" 

"Freedom  ?"  he  said.  "Do  you  call  it  buying  your 
freedom,  to  tie  yourself  to  me?" 


A  CALLER  93 

"Isn't  it?" 

He  pondered.  A  paradox!  In  remaining  his 
wife,  she  was  free.  What,  however,  did  that  make 
of  him  ?  A  nullity !  Manhood  protested.  This  im- 
perious young  woman  took  a  good  deal  for  granted. 
To  be  a  cipher  for  a  day  or  two  might  be  endured, 
but  to  be  one  for  a  hundred  or  a  thousand  days — 
to  permit  one's  self  to  become  an  endless  multiplica- 
tion of  ciphers?  It  was  not  to  be  borne.  He  would 
assert  himself.  He  would  gird  on  his  armor.  He 
had  need  to.  He  recognized  the  danger  in  the  situa- 
tion for  him.  He  had  had  experience  in  woman's 
ways,  or  wiles,  and  here,  there  was  sorcery  in  the 
air.  Every  perfumed  breath  warned  him.  Youth 
and  beauty  in  distress !  What  an  undermining  com- 
bination! Blessed  be  those  powers  of  resistance 
which  he  had  cultivated! 

He  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  stature.  "I  beg 
your  pardon,"  he  said  distantly  but  gently,  "what 
you  ask  is  quite — " 

He  got  no  further.  It  may  be  she  was  not  so 
assured  as  she  seemed,  that  her  confident  bearing 
was  more  or  less  assumed,  for  the  straight  proud 
figure  seemed  to  waver,  and  she  put  out  her  hand 


94   ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

with  a  most  human  and  impulsive  gesture — not  at 
all  the  grand  dame  kind  of  a  gesture!  For  the 
moment  she  seemed  unequal  to  the  stronger  part  and 
gave  evidence  of  a  palpable  and  feminine  weakness 
which  threatened  to  play  havoc  with  that  earlier 
haughty  composure. 

"You  must  not  refuse — you  must  not !"  She  was 
very  girlish  as  she  spoke,  appealingly  so.  "I  have 
really  brought  them  all — all !" 

"All?"  he  said,  as  not  understanding. 

"Yes."    Eagerly.     "All  my  jewels!  Every  one." 

"Oh!"  His  face  grew  sterner.  She  thought  he 
might  want  to  bargain  further — that  he  was  only 
holding  off  because  he  might  get  more.  He  was 
beginning  to  feel  annoyed.  Her  persistence  was  as 
disconcerting  as  her  methods  for  keeping  a  husband 
were  questionable.  To  buy — ^to  wheedle — any  way 
to  have  her  own  way!    How  like  the  sex! 

"See  here !"  he  began  roughly,  and  stopped.  Some- 
thing in  her  eyes  stopped  him — ^a  light  that  was  not 
a  bargaining  light.  He  could  not  speak  roughly 
to  her,  so  he  bit  his  lip  impatiently  and  strode  to 
and  fro.  The  girl  watched  him.  He  passed  the  table 
with  the  jewels  on  it  and  felt  like  kicking  it  over.  He 


A   CALLER  95 

laughed  savagely.  A  fine  predicament!  He  looked 
at  her  almost  resentfully.  How  some  men  would 
welcome  the  chance  to  marry  her.  His  predecessor, 
for  example !  But  she  wouldn't  have  him,  no  doubt, 
because  he  was  willing  and  available.  Woman's 
perversity!  In  the  case  of  that  other,  however,  it 
would,  of  course,  be  a  real  marriage ;  not  such  fool- 
ish business  as  this!  He  glowered  at  her  charms 
and  quickly  she  looked  away.  From  his  six  feet 
or  so  of  superb  masculinity  he  gazed  down  at  her 
with  frowning  disapproval.  Her  face  was  sad  now 
— confound  it!  What  a  face  it  was,  too,  when  sad! 
How  one  of  his  painter  friends  who  were  always 
looking  for  the  intangible  and  the  inexpressible 
would  exclaim  at  the  sight  of  it.  The  brow  like 
snow — the  perfect  profile — the  eyes  fixed  as  if 
studying  the  future! 

"See  here,"  he  began  again  roughly,  when  she 
stepped  suddenly  to  him.    Her  manner  was  feverish. 

"It  came  to  me,  when  I  looked  at  you  from  be- 
hind the  screen  at  Light  of  Life's,  that  you  might 
not  be  quite  like  the  others,"  she  said  rapidly.  "I 
mean — I  do  not  know  quite  what  I  mean ! — but  you 
were  not  just  as  I  thought  you,  a  paid  mustahall, 


96       AUADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

would  be.  That  thought  occurred  to  me  but  I  dis- 
missed it.  It  was  too  preposterous.  I  forgot  it. 
Mustahalls  are  mustahalls.  But  it  came  to  me 
again." 

"Again?"  he  repeated. 

"Just  now !" 

"Why?" 

"I  can't  exactly  tell.  Perhaps  it  was  when  you 
passed  the  table  and  looked  at  them — "  Her  white 
hand  indicated  the  jewels.  "Your  face  seemed  to 
say—" 

"What?"  He  could  not  but  smile.  His  wife 
was  certainly  a  versatile  young  woman.  She  had 
penetration  and  was  a  good  deal  of  a  sibyl. 

"I  can't  just  define  it,"  she  said,  almost  wearily, 
"only" — ^looking  at  him  and  yet  beyond  him — "if 
I  can't  make  you  do  what  I  want  without  them,  it 
may  be  I  can't — with  them.  I  don't  know  why.  It 
is  hard  to  understand.  You  must  be  different  from 
other  mustahalls. 

He  regarded  her  now,  not  annoyedly,  but  contem- 
platively. Her  powers  of  divination  might  prove 
disastrous.     He  was  skating  on  thin  ice. 

"Suppose  I  didn't  divorce  you? — "  he  began. 


A   CALLER  97 

"Yes—?"  Joyously. 

"What  would  your — Amad  say?" 

"He — "  Her  voice  became  almost  fierce.  She 
certainly  looked  her  aversion  for  that  person. 

"You  see,  he — he  employed  me,"  suggested  the 
dervish  gently. 

"But  he  misrepresented — " 

"That  is  true,"    The  dervish  started. 

"He  told  you  I  wept.  I! — I!"  Her  laugh  was 
like  the  murmur  of  an  icy  brook. 

Involuntarily  the  dervish  shivered.  "And  I  asked 
particularly  about  that,  too,"  he  observed.  "They 
assured  me — I  mean  the  dyer — ^that  I  should  be  a 
benefactor." 

"And  you  wouldn't  have  consented,  if  you  had 
known  I  hated  him?" 

"Amad?" 

"Yes,  yes;  if  you  had  known  I  both  hate  and 
despise — ^that  I  would  kill  myself  rather  than  ever 
go  back  to  him?" 

"Kill  yourself?"  he  repeated.  His  pulses  were 
beating  stronger.  It  was  as  if  he  had  unconsciously, 
even  against  his  will,  caught  a  little  of  her  excite- 
ment, the  tense  feeling  under  which  she  labored — 


98        ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

which  seemed  to  carry  her  on,  without  thought  now 
•—"You!" 

"You  wouldn't  have  consented  if  you  had  known 
that?"  she  asked  again.  "Tell  me  quick.  I  must 
know.    Tell  me !" 

He  started  to  answer  impetuously ;  he  almost  did. 
The  girl  had  temperament ;  she  was  most  convincing 
and  he  had  been  nearly  swept  along  by  her.  But  he 
caught  himself  in  time. 

"I  think  I  should  have  considered  further  before 
embarking  on  the  enterprise,"  he  returned  after  a 
moment's  forced  hesitation. 

"You  would?"  There  was  both  gladness  and 
triumph  in  her  tone.  His  answer  seemed  as  much, 
if  not  more,  than  she  had  expected.  "I  was  not 
wrong,  then,  though  I  dared  not  believe — "  She 
came  closer  to  the  young  man  and  a  contagious  ex- 
hilaration seemed  to  emanate  from  her.  He  felt  it 
subtly. 

He  moved  slightly.  "At  least  I  should  have  made 
a  few  inquiries  before  committing  myself,"  he  con- 
fessed rather  stiffly.  Deuce  take  it!  What  extraor- 
dinary  physical  beauty  the  girl  possessed !  The  idea 
of  standing  so  close  to  your  wife  and  being  afraid 
of  touching  her!   He  felt,  on  a  sudden,  he  wanted 


A   CALLjER  99 

to  get  away — not  that  there  was  really  any  danger 
pf  his  making  a  fool  of  himself.  Not  at  all;  he 
had  long  since  got  past  that  sort  of  thing.  How- 
ever it  was  time  to  go. 

"All  right,"  he  said  briskly.  "I'll  not  divorce 
you."  After  all,  his  keeping  her  as  his  wife  did 
mean  little  to  him.  His  objections  had  been  more 
sentimental  than  practical.  He  could  afford  to  waive 
them  magnanimously.  "Besides,  I've  carried  out 
half  my  contract  with  them,"  he  laughed.  "Enough 
to  pay  for  the  square  meal  they  gave  me !  I  imagine 
we're  about  quits,  under  the  circumstances." 

"Allah  reward  you,"  said  the  girl.  Was  there 
moisture  in  her  eyes  ? 

"Pooh !"  He  waved  a  hand.  "As  you  pointed  out, 
it  is  nothing  for  me  to  do.  A  few  wives,  more  or 
less — eh?  What  is  she  about  now?"  This  last  to 
himself. 

For  the  girl  had  turned  quickly,  picked  up  an  ob- 
ject from  somewhere  and  stepped  back  with  it.  "A 
Koran,"  she  said.     "I  had  it  ready." 

"For  what?"  The  moisture  had  already  van- 
ished from  her  eyes. 

"For  the  oath  you  are  to  take;  one  no  Moham- 
medan would  dare  break." 


loo      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"Oh,  I  have  to  take  an  path?"  Truly  his  wife 
was  very  businesslike ;  she  certainly  took  no  chances. 
"Couldn't  you  stretch  a  point,"  he  went  on  with  ac- 
cents slightly  hurt,  "and  trust  me  ?" 

"I  could,"  said  the  girl,  "only,"  practically,  "this 
way  is  better.  If  you  broke  the  oath  you  would  be 
plunged  into  Hades." 

"But  suppose  I  swore  never  to  divorce  you,  and 
you  changed  your  mind  some  day?  Women  do, 
you  know.  What  would  you  do  then?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"I  shall  not  change  my  mind.  I  don't  ever  want 
to  get  married  again." 

"You  may  only  think  you  don't.  You  are  rather 
young,  and — ahem! — ^not  unattractive.  Perhaps 
the  right  man  may  come  along  some  day  and — " 

"I  hate  all  men."    With  finality. 

"But  you  may  not  always.  And  then  to  be  en- 
cumbered with  me?  That  would  be  awkward, 
wouldn't  it?  Suppose  we  modify  the  oath?"  Suspi- 
cion began  to  shine  in  the  dark  eyes  that  studied 
him.  She  had  been  brought  up  in  a  hard  school. 
"Suppose  I  swear  to  keep  you  for  my  wife,  as  long 
as  you  want  me  to  ?" 


A   CALLER  loi 

"But  I  shall  never  see  you  again." 

"Hum!    That  is  so." 

She  bent  forward  quickly,  the  Koran  in  her 
hands.    "Put  your  hand  on  it,"  she  said. 

He  did  so.  The  glory  of  her  dark  hair  waved 
before  him — almost  touched  him.  His  fingers  were 
on  the  book.  They  thrilled,  but  not  through  con- 
tact with  it.  Her  own  fingers  were  touching  his. 
That  could  hardly  be  avoided  for  the  book  was  not 
large.  A  wave  of  sweetness  seemed  ascending  from 
the  sacred  volume  into  his  arms.  It  seemed  getting 
into  his  head,  too. 

"I  solemnly  swear  that  I  will  keep  thee,  Fatma," 
said  a  voice.    It  was  soft,  low  and  penetrating. 

"I  solemnly  swear  that  I  will  keep  thee, 
Fatma — "  How  solemn  his  own  voice !  He  couldn't 
help  feeling  somewhat  sober.  He  heard  no  longer 
the  fountain  or  saw  the  flowers.  He  saw  only  her, 
the  background  a  strange  blur. 

" — ^keep  thee,  Fatma,  for  my  wife,  forever — " 

" — ^keep  thee,  Fatma,  for  my  wife,  forever!"  It 
was  done.  He  had  taken  the  oath.  He  looked  deep 
into  her  eyes.  They  seemed  to  invite  him,  though 
of  course  they  didn't  mean  to.    But  they  were  the 


I02      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

kind  of  eyes  that  would  invite  any  man — any  real 
human  man — without  intending  to.  He  felt  he  was 
about  to  do  something  foolish,  perhaps — she  was  his 
forever — a  most  desirable  possession !  He  was .  for- 
getting himself,  when  suddenly  the  girl  started  back. 
The  book  fell  from  her  hand. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AN  INTERRUPTED  HONEYMOON 

THE  servant  had  again  come  out  of  the  house 
and  approached  them.  Obviously  he  had 
serious  news  to  impart,  for  his  customary  grave  de- 
meanor had  undergone  a  change.  The  man's  face 
showed  excitement 

"Oh,  my  mistress,  Amad-Ahl-Masr  is  here!" 

"Here?"  she  exclaimed  wildly.     "Where?" 

"At  the  side  entrance  to  the  house.  There  are 
others  with  him,  and  he  says  if  we  do  not  unlock 
the  door,  they  will  force  their  way  in." 

"Quick!"  The  girl  turned  to  the  dervish  and  there 
was  consternation  on  her  features.   "You  must  go !" 

"Go?"  His  fingers  yet  thrilled  from  the  touch 
of  hers. 

"Yes.  He  will  demand  that  you  carry  out  your 
contract  with  him  and  divorce  me — " 

"And  as  I  can  not,  now  ?" 

"He  would  try  to  find  a  way  to  make  you.  He 
103 


I04      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

will  stop  at  nothing.  He  would  make  you  prisoner, 
or,  if  necessary,  he  would  kill  you.  You  must  get 
away — far,  far  away,  somewhere — " 

"All  right.  I'll  go.  I'll  do  my  best.''  And  he 
started,  though  a  little  reluctantly,  for  the  gate.  He 
would  have  liked  to  see  Amad.  Confound  him! 
He  wondered  what  he  was  like,  the  man  who 
had  once  wooed  and  won  her?  Not  that  he,  the 
dervish,  was  jealous  of  him  and  her  past.  That 
was  impossible;  he  had  only  met  the  girl  for 
the  first  time  yesterday.  But  he  was  a  bit  curious. 
He  would  confess  to  that. 

"One  moment !"  She  pushed  quickly  past  him  to 
the  lattice  of  the  gate  and  an  exclamation  of  dis- 
appointment fell  from  her  lips.  "You  can't  go  out 
that  way." 

"Why  not?"  He  experienced  an  odd  passive- 
ness.  She  was  directing  the  affair.  Her  dark  eyes 
glowed  with  excitement — ^perhaps,  too,  with  a  little 
dread. 

"Two  of  his  servants  are  out  there  in  the  street, 
near  by,  and — yes — ^there  is  that  doorkeeper  from 
Light  of  Life's.  He  stands  at  the  comer  and 
watches.    You  could  not  pass  them." 


AN   INTERRUPTED    HONEYMOON    105 

'T  could  try." 

"No,  no!  They  have  their  instructions.  And  if 
you  did  not  give  yourself  up  at  once,  they  would  not 
spare  you." 

He  knew  that  assassination,  as  a  fine  art,  still 
existed  in  Mohammedan  countries.  Men  disap- 
peared and  influence  stifled  inquiry.  Amad  had  in- 
fluence. His  feelings  could  be  imagined  when  he 
learned  definitely  that  the  dervish  had  no  intention 
of  setting  his  "wife"  free.  His  rage  would  be  un- 
bounded that  the  substitute  husband  had  dared  come 
here,  at  all,  and  meet  her.  He  might  still  give  the 
latter  a  chance  to  carry  out  the  original  program,  as 
a  matter  of  expediency,  but  if  the  dervish  did  not? — 
Well,  his  speedy  demise  would  release  her  from 
all  ties  and  Amad  would  then  be  free  to  force  his 
attentions  once  more  on  her — to  remarry  her. 

The  dervish's  life  was  therefore  really  very 
precious  to  her  though  not  for  disinterested  reasons. 
Circumstances  had  ordained  that  henceforth  he 
would  be  to  her  as  the  apple  of  her  eye.  He  had  to 
live,  for  her  sake.  Was  she  considering  all  that — 
her  own  plight  if  anything  happened  to  him?  He 
studied  the  proud  lovely  face.    She  certainly  seemed 


io6      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

most  anxious.  Her  eyes  shone  with  solicitude — fof 
him.  That  was  good.  She  clasped  and  un- 
clasped her  hands,  as  if  trying  to  think  fast — 
how  to  get  rid  of  him,  now?  He  was  a  perpetual 
appendage,  but  he  was  also  an  encumbrance.  He 
appreciated  her  embarrassment — the  problem  she 
had  to  solve — and  strove  to  assist  her. 

"Perhaps  there  is  some  other  way  to  get  out  of 
the  house — to  eliminate  myself?"  he  suggested. 

"Except  for  this  gate  and  the  side  entrance,  there 
is  no  way,"  she  answered  feverishly. 

"Isn't  there  a  canal  at  the  back?  Thought  I 
heard  one  go  singing  by." 

"There  is  a  canal  but — "  She  turned  to  the  serv- 
ant. "Go  to  the  side  door.'  Find  some  excuse  to 
keep  them  out  yet,  just  a  little  while.  Say  I  am  con- 
sidering— say  anything — ^that  we  will  open  in  a  few 
moments." 

The  man  nodded  hastily  and  vanished.  His  eyes 
were  comprehensive  but  dubious. 

"You  were  saying  there  is  a  canal  ?"  continued  the 
dervish  briskly.  "Any  windows  looking  out  upon 
it?" 


AN   INTERRUPTED   HONEYMOON    107 

"Only  a  basement  window.  But  you  must  not  go 
that  way." 

"Must  not — from  a  wife?" 

"The  canal  is  swift  and  deep  just  now.  The 
mountain  rains  have  made  it  more  a  torrent  than 
a  canal.    It  is  very  dangerous." 

"And  I  might  get  drowned  ?  That  wouldn't  do," 
he  laughed. 

She  did  not  answer.  Her  glance  swept  nervously 
toward  the  house. 

"I  can  think  of  nothing! — nothing!"  There  was 
helplessness,  almost  despair  in  her  voice. 

"Which  brings  us  back  to  the  canal,"  said  the  der- 
vish cheerfully.  "Some  one  has  to  decide,  and  in 
this  case,  I  don't  think  there  is  much  time — " 

"There  isn't!" 

"Then  I'll  exercise  a  husband's  prerogative,  and 
command.  The  aqueous  exit!  So  be  it.  There! 
there!"  He  raised  his  hand.  "Not  a  word.  It  is 
determined.  I  am  authority  itself.  And  now  an- 
other thing — to  get  out  of  Damascus  safely,  I  must 
discard  these  garments.  I  must  have  others.  Don't 
contradict  me.    We  haven't   a  minute  to  waste. 


io8      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

unless — you  know  the  alternative.  Just  listen  and 
obey."  Even  in  that  moment  of  emergency  her 
eyes  dilated  slightly.  He  was  certainly  most  uncere- 
monious in  his  manner  for  a  nameless  vagabond  of 
the  desert.  "Can  you  find  me  an  extra  suit  of  your 
man's  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  girl. 

"Then  get  it  for  me." 

Just  an  instant  she  hesitated ;  then — "Come !"  she 
said  hastily.  Imperious  though  she  might  be,  her 
own  strategic  ability  had  for  the  moment  failed  her. 
She  was  at  a  loss  what  to  do  herself,  and  so  permit- 
ted him  to  "take  the  lead,"  figuratively.  It  was  she 
who  literally  led  the  way  to  the  house.  The  man 
smiled.  His  first  domestic  victory!  Also,  his  last! 
Sobering  thought!  Now  a  household  despot — no 
other  autocrat  so  mighty! — in  a  few  moments, 
what? 

His  mind  did  not  linger  on  lugubrious  contingen- 
cies, however,  as  he  followed  his  wife  across  the 
court.  It  was  briefly  employed  in  esthetic  contem- 
plation. She  certainly  had  a  charming  neck.  Be- 
neath the  masses  of  hair,  a  tiny  lock  nestled  on  the 
white  skin.    He  had  not  noticed  it  before.    It  was 


AN   INTERRUPTED   HONEYMOON    109 

a  most  fascinating  little  lock,  for  one  so  haughty 
and  proud-looking.  It  seemed  to  have  been  wound 
around  Cupid's  finger  itself,  to  curl  so  coquettishly. 
Nothing  stand-offish  about  it!  It  seemed  to  lure  a 
lover's  fingers,  to  invite  a  man  to  his  own  destruc- 
tion. That  is,  if  a  man  did  not  have  himself  per- 
fectly under  control,  as  he  had. 

As  they  entered  the  house  and  passed  into  the 
mandarah,  they  could  hear  voices  at  the  side  en- 
trance. The  dervish  paused  while  the  girl  went  on. 
The  caretaker  was  speaking  and  he  was  obviously 
doing  his  best,  making  the  most  of  a  thankless  task. 

"It  is  true  I  told  the  servant  of  Light  of  Life  my 
mistress  was  not  here,"  the  dervish  heard  him  say. 
"It  is  also  true  that  she  is  in  the  house  now.  But 
she  was  not  here  then.    She  arrived  since." 

"Liar!"  came  from  without.  "We  have  had  the 
place  well  guarded.  And  that  beggar  of  a  dervish 
— he  is  even  now  here  with  her — " 

"Impossible !"  Fervently.  "By  the  beard  of  the 
prophet,  what  would  my  mistress  want  with  such  as 
he  ?  A  lady  finely  bred ! — a  low  mustahall!" 

"He  was  seen  to  enter  by  the  neighbors.  I  have 
their  word."    More  shrilly. 


no   ALADDIN  FROM  BROADWAY 

"That  fellow.  Oh,  he  was  but  a  seller  of  licorice 
water.  Allah  has  cursed  my  good  wife  with  a  sweet 
tooth  and  the  erk-sose  but  came  to  the  door  with  his 
cup  and  went  away  again.  By  the  sacred  tomb  of 
the  prophet  I  even  swear  it  is  so,  as  you  will  see 
when  presently  I  shall  have  orders  to  admit  you." 
Again  an  answer  from  without,  which  was  followed 
by:  "Such  impatience!  And  from  one  who  has 
really  no  right  to  come  here,  at  all !  She  is  not  your 
wife  now,  though  she  will  soon  enjoy  that  honor 
once  more.  And  I  shall  be  the  first  to  rejoice  for 
her.  But  meanwhile  is  it  fit  to  bring  scandal  upon 
her — ^you,  an  ex-husband?  The  law  is  plain  in  the 
matter.  We  could  refuse  to  admit  you  altogether, 
but  we  won't."  Truly  the  fellow  had  a  ready  tongue. 
"My  mistress  is  most  complaisant.  She  has  nothing 
to  fear.  She  will  even  see  you,  and  very  shortly. 
My  wife  is  with  her  just  now — in  the  bath.  Soon, 
however,  she  will  be  attired,  and  then — though,  with 
proper  precautions,  and  veiled,  she  may  admit — " 

Expostulations  from  the  other  side  of  the  door! 
That  angry  voice  the  dervish  remembered  so  well 
yesterday  night  in  the  inner  court  of  the  mosque! 
Threats !    Matters  were  coming  to  a  climax.    Amad 


AN   INTERRUPTED   HONEYMOON     iil 

was  not  in  a  mental  condition  to  cool  his  heels  long 
on  the  door-step.  "I  will  give  you  five  minutes  to 
open  and  deliver  unto  me  this  fellow.  Not  a 
minute  longer!  We  know  he  is  here  and  he  can't 
get  away.    Why  defer?" 

A  shadow  fell  across  the  black  and  white  marble 
pavement  near  where  the  dervish  stood,  and  turn- 
ing, he  saw  the  girl;  over  her  arm  were  garments. 
At  the  end  of  the  apartment  was  a  recess, 
with  arches,  and  this  she  indicated.  There  was  no 
need  for  words.  She  waited  without,  while  he  en- 
tered. The  recess,  containing  vessels  of  perfume,  is 
designed  particularly  for  rest  and  meditation.  The 
dervish  did  not  indulge  in  either,  though  the  thought 
did  cross  his  mind :  Under  proper  conditions,  what 
a  place  for  a  road-worn  rover,  after  the  shocks  and 
knocks  of  the  world — with  one — the  one,  to  bring 
you  the  water-pipe — and  then,  to  recline,  exhaling 
the  fragrant  tobacco,  and  to  dream,  the  while  you 
regard  beauty  through  veils  of  smoke,  or  apostro- 
phize it  in  the  original  Arabic,  with  such  words  as — 

"Hasten,"  said  the  girl  without. 

But  he  hadn't  been  wasting  any  time.  Having 
hastily  thrown  off  his  outer  garments,  he  donned 


112      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

those  she  had  brought  him.  Then  thrusting  the  gay 
clothes  his  predecessor,  Amad,  had  provided,  under 
a  frame  made  of  palm  sticks,  where  they 
would  not,  most  likely,  be  found  at  once,  the  dervish 
rejoined  the  girl.  He  was  no  longer  a  bridegroom, 
but  a  sober-looking  serving  man.  Silently  they 
moved  out  of  the  mandarah,  through  the  less  ornate 
servants'  apartments,  until  they  reached  a  stone 
stairway,  leading  down. 

He  did  not  permit  her  to  pause  now,  but  went 
down  first.  She  followed  with  a  taper.  Her  eyes 
were  wide  and  bright  and  she  moved  mechanically 
as  if  she  were  doing  something  through  no  volition 
of  her  own.  In  the  dim  light  she  appeared  like  some 
beautiful  young  tragedy  princess.  The  young  man's 
manner,  however,  was  neither  tragic  nor  somber. 
He  cast  a  comprehensive  glance  around  him,  then 
turned  to  the  casement.  The  masonry  was  old  and 
in  a  few  moments,  with  the  aid  of  a  stick  of  fire- 
wood, he  had  pried  loose  the  iron  bars  and  removed 
them.  It  was  not  a  difficult  task.  Then  he  looked 
out;  the  surface  of  the  canal  was  near,  and  the 
waters  ran  swiftly. 

"We  call  it  the  'black  death*,  when  it  is  swollen 


AN   INTERRUPTED   HONEYMOON     113 

like  that,"  breathed  the  girl.  She  had  set  down  the 
light  and  looked  over  his  shoulder.  Swirling,  seeth- 
ing, the  dark  current  ran  beneath  houses  and  through 
subterranean  places. 

He  turned  his  head ;  he  was  listening  now,  not  to 
the  mad  waters,  but  to  sounds  above.  Amad  was 
coming  in,  and  they  hadn't  unlocked  the  door  to  ad- 
mit him.  The  din  he  caught  apprised  the  dervish 
of  the  manner  of  the  other's  entrance.  She,  too, 
looked  around.  But  the  head  of  the  stairway  still 
was  dark.  Only  the  flickering  candle  lighted  the 
basement.  Without,  not  a  star's  reflection  touched 
the  surface  of  the  water.    Like  ink  it  rushed  along. 

"You  ought  not — I  really  have  no  right  to  let  you 
go  this  way — "  the  girl  half  faltered.  Did  she 
really  care  just  a  little  bit,  if  anything  happened  to 
him,  thought  the  dervish.  But  again  came  that 
damning  reflection — the  reason  for  solicitude  on  her 
part!  Ladies  of  high  degree  do  not  care  what  be- 
comes of  mustahalls.  They,  the  beggars  and  the 
dervishes,  are  only  the  flies  of  the  desert.  One, 
more  or  less,  what  matter  ? 

*Tt  is  the  only  way,"  he  answered.  "And  I'm  a 
fine  swimmer,  so  don't  worry.    No  cause !    I'm  go- 


114      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

ing  to  get  safely  away.  Not  the  slightest  doubt 
in  my  mind  about  that.  And  then  I'll  put  a  big 
distance  between  us.  Seas  shall  separate  us,"  he 
added  cheerfully.  She  did  not  appear  so  reassured 
by  his  words  as  she  should  have  been,  and  so  he  took 
another  tack.  "Amad  won't,  of  course,  harm  you. 
And  he  can't  marry  you.  Why,  you  can  laugh  at 
him.  As  you  did  before!  And  snap  your  fingers! 
The  game  is  yours.  I'd  stay,  if  it  would  do  any 
good.  But  I'm  distinctly  de  trop!"  He  ended  with  a 
laugh. 

Her  hand  touched  his  arm,  though  she  was  una- 
ware of  the  gesture.  Her  eyes  swept  back  to  the 
doorway  and  he  saw  in  them  a  new  expression. 

"Why,  you  aren't  afraid?  You!"  he  exclaimed, 
wonderingly. 

It  was  fear  he  saw  shining  in  their  depths. 

"You  fear  to  have  me  leave  you — to  meet 
Amad  ?"  he  cried. 

She  threw  back  her  head.  "Afraid  to  meet  him ! 
Never !"  There  was  contempt  in  her  eyes,  disdain — 
no  fear  now. 

"Good,"  he  said  approvingly.  He  believed  her; 
she  had  spirit,  courage;  she  was  only  overwrought. 
"Always  bear  this  in  mind:  It  is  only  I  against 


AN   INTERRUPTED   HONEYMOON    115 

whom  his  anger  or  his  malignity  can  be  turned.  The 
sabit  magistrate  will  protect  you.  The  law  is 
very  strict.  There  must  be  absolute  evidence  that  a 
woman  is  divorced,  before  another  man  may  take 
her." 

"Yes,  yes ;  I  know,"  said  the  girl.  Did  the  proud 
lips  tremble  slightly?  He  reached  over  and  patted 
her  shoulder.  Fancy  patting  the  shoulder  of  a 
haughty  young  goddess!  The  girl  drew  suddenly 
back,  but  he  did  not  notice.  His  eyes  were  now 
bent  again  toward  the  staircase.  A  light  had  flick- 
ered above,  then  vanished. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  with  a  grave  smile. 

She  did  not  answer. 

"That  wekeel  was  a  fool,"  he  said. 

"What  wekeel?" 

"The  one  who  described  you  to  me.  As  if  any 
wekeel  could  do  justice  to  you!" 

"What  are  you  saying?" 

"Did  Amad  ever  tell  you,  you  had  beautiful 
eyes  ?" 

"Go!  go!"  she  murmured  half  incoherently. 
Above  the  sounds  were  very  close  now. 

"I  little  thought  when  I  saw  you  before  the  pastry- 
shop  that  I  should  be  married  to  you  to-day." 


ii6      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"Pastry-shop?"  She  caught  his  words,  but  they 
meant  nothing  to  her  then. 

"You  threw  me  the  cake.  Very  good  of  you! 
Only  a  dog  got  it." 

The  light  flared  again  above.  They  were  coming 
down. 

"You  made  a  poor  dervish  forget  his  prayers." 

"Quick!"  Her  eyes  were  appealing.  "Go!  go!" 
they  implored  him  now. 

He  went,  but  first  he  bent  over  her ;  he  hadn't  the 
remotest  intention  of  doing  it,  but  he  did;  his  lips 
swept  hers.  "A  kiss!  One  can  surely  give  his  wife 
a  kiss  in  parting."  His  gay  reckless  laugh  rang 
out.  The  girl  started  back  and  her  face  was  crim- 
son.   She  stood  alone  now — ^but  not  for  long. 


iVi'' 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  THE  STABLE 

A  SERVANT,  several  hours  later,  opened  the 
garden  gate  of  a  house  on  the  other  side  of 
the  town  and  stepped  slowly  in  the  darkness  down 
the  smooth  stone  steps  leading  to  the  water.  He 
had  almost  reached  the  last  of  them  when,  uttering 
a  startled  exclamation,  he  dropped  his  bucket.  One 
of  his  bare  feet  had  come  in  contact  with  a  damp 
object — a  man — dead? — drowned?  The  figure  lay 
huddled  up  just  beyond  the  reach  of  the  water.  For 
a  moment  the  servant  seemed  uncertain  whether  to 
go  or  stay.  He  ended  by  stooping  over  the  man  and 
dragging  him  up  the  slippery  steps.  Staggering 
with  his  burden — no  light  one —  across  the  lawn,  he 
opened  the  door  of  an  outbuilding  and  allowed  the 
figure  to  slide  to  the  ground.  A  great  gaunt  Damas- 
cus dog  which  had  been  curled  up  in  a  comer, 
uncoiled  himself  and  came  up  to  nose  the  stranger. 
A  moment  the  servant  stood  puffing,  then  going  to  a 

117 


ii8      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

kettle  simmering  above  a  few  charcoal  embers  in 
a  brazier,  he  half  filled  a  cup  with  water,  poured  into 
it  a  few  drops  of  a  gin-colored  liquid,  called  "whis- 
ky" by  the  natives,  and  thrust  the  mixture  upon  his 
unexpected,  and  more  or  less  unwelcome  guest. 

The  latter,  after  a  few  moments'  persistent  effort 
on  the  part  of  the  servant,  mechanically  swallowed 
the  contents  of  the  cup,  whereupon  the  servant 
threw  a  ragged  and  odorous  blanket  over  him  and 
returned  to  his  belated  task.  He  hurried  out  with 
another  bucket  and  came  back  with  it  filled.  He 
bestowed  no  further  attention  on  his  guest.  Allah 
had  permitted  the  latter  to  swallow;  ergo,  he  was 
not  dead.  It  was  enough.  The  servant's  concern 
now  lay  solely  in  a  horse,  a  magnificent  beast,  big- 
boned  and  with  a  small  head.  As  he  wiped  the 
splashes  of  mud  from  him,  the  man  grumbled.  The 
Moslem  Beelzebub  take  a  master  who  stayed  out 
late  and  brought  the  peerless  Star  of  the  Desert 
home  in  such  a  condition !  However,  he  polished  the 
big  beauty  sedulously  and  when  he  had  finished,  the 
Star  fairly  shone.  Drawing  back  to  contemplate  his 
work,  the  servant  became  aware  that  his  guest  was 
sitting  up. 


IN   THE    STABLE  119 

"That's  a  good  horse,"  said  the  guest,  with  the  eye 
of  a  connoisseur. 

The  other  assented. 

"I  presume,"  continued  the  guest  in  a  rather  weak 
voice,  "you  brought  me  here?" 

"My  back  tells  me  so,"  returned  the  servant, 
grudgingly.  "You  were  out  there  on  one  of  the 
steps." 

"Yes,  I  remember  getting  on  them  and  wondering 
if  I  would  slide  off.  Then  I  didn't  remember  any- 
thing more  until  just  now." 

The  servant  threw  a  fine  blanket  over  the  horse; 
he  had  to  be  served  royally ;  picturesque  tassels  hung 
from  the  edge.  "How  came  you  in  the  canal  ?"  the 
servant  asked  curtly. 

"How?  Hum!  Let  me  see;  my  head  is  in  a 
whirl."  It  was,  indeed.  Oh,  for  the  fluent  tongue 
of  his  wife's  servant — ^the  caretaker !  "Didn't  I  have 
an  argument  with  some  Christian  converts?"  He 
held  his  head,  as  if  striving  to  collect  his  shattered 
ideas. 

"Most  likely!"  returned  the  servant.  "There  are 
many  such — too  many !  Dogs !"  He  ejaculated  and 
spat. 


120      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"I  recall  being  set  upon.  I  was  one  among  many, 
and—" 

"They  threw  you  into  the  canal !" 

"No ;  I  jumped  in,  to  escape."  Honestly.  "None 
too  soon,  I  tell  you.    They  almost  had  me — " 

"It  was  a  brave  deed,"  commented  the  servant. 

"They  were  fiends." 

"They  always  are." 

"They  would  have  cut  me  to  pieces." 

"We  will  cut  them  in  pieces,"  said  the  servant. 
"Red  days  are  in  store.  We  shall  have  to  exter- 
minate them  once  more.  May  the  time  be  near!" 
With  which  invocation  he  lay  down  and  was  soon 
snoring  loudly. 

His  guest  did  not  fall  to  sleep  so  easily.  His  body 
ached  for  he  had  been  dashed  and  bumped  about 
until  he  was  covered  with  bruises.  How  far  he  had 
come  and  how  he  had  managed  to  escape  drowning, 
he  did  not  know.  He  had  swept  in  and  out  of  black 
infernos.  Once  he  had  been  pinned  in  somewhere 
among  the  supports  of  a  house.  The  experience 
was  not  a  pleasant  one ;  he  did  not  like  to  think  of  it. 
His  thoughts  were  still  chaotic,  however,  for  he 
couldn't  think  of  anything  very  clearly.    He  retained 


IN  THE   STABLE  121 

only  confused  impressions.  He  wondered  if  it  were 
his  wedding-day  still,  or  the  day  after?  How  many 
hours  had  passed?  He  saw  his  bride  again  as  he 
had  seen  her  at  that  moment  of  parting. 

What  madness  had  caused  him  to  take  leave  of 
her  in  that  manner?  It  was  not  chivalrously  done. 
But  what  sweet  lips  the  girl  had !  Or  are  only  stolen 
sweets  the  best?  Had  he,  the  cynic,  acquired  new 
and  dangerous  knowledge?  Had  his  own  temerity 
bred  in  him  a  certain  fever — the  wish  to  see  once 
more  her  whom  he  would  never  see  again  ?  That  act 
of  inconsideration  would  then  react  upon  himself. 
So  would  she  be  avenged — if  it  were  so. 

But,  of  course,  he  was  only  a  little  feverish  and 
imaginative  to-night — there  had  been  a  chill  in  the 
water  and  he  had  fought  with  the  current  so  long! 
He  could  imagine  all  kinds  of  things — ^her  hatred 
of  him  now,  for  example !  He  had  caught  one  look 
in  her  eyes  before  he  had  jumped  into  the  canal. 
She  had  certainly  been  surprised.  He  didn't  quite 
know  whether  he  was  sorry  or  glad  for  what  he  had 
done.  His  brain  ought  to  be  singing  med  culpa, 
but  it  wasn't — ^at  least,  perceptibly.  A  honeymoon, 
without  a  kiss  ?    Just  fancy !    He  would  have  been 


122      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

a  dolt  not  to  have  done  it  when  her  lips  were  so 
near.  Such  lips ;  like  poppies !  He  was  feverish,  con- 
found it !  Fancy  his  thoughts  dwelling  on  such  a  lit' 
tie  thing  as  a  kiss!  It  was  attaching  too  much  im- 
portance to  the  matter.  He  would  forget  it — just  as 
he  would  forget  her — he  would  have  to,  of  course. 
No  use  remembering  a  wife  you're  never  going  to 
behold  more!  So  he  turned  over  and  composed 
himself  phlegmatically  for  slumber. 

But  it  didn't  come.  Other  arms  than  those  of 
Morpheus  wooed  him.  Deuce  take  the  whole  affair! 
Most  inconsiderate  of  Number  One  to  have  broken 
in  upon  him  like  that !  Had  it  not  been  for  Amad 
and  his  foolish  jealousy,  he  would  have  taken 
leave  of  the  girl  in  circumspect,  orderly  and 
decorous  fashion.  But  Amad's  coming  had  bred 
an  atmosphere  of  chaos;  excitement  was  in  the 
air.  It  was  a  time  when  men  comport  themselves 
irrationally.  It  was  an  unnatural,  concentrated  kind 
of  leavetaking.  Multum  in  parvo,  as  it  were.  Too 
much  multum,  he  grumblingly  told  himself.  On  one 
hand  Amad,  thirsting  for  his  blood ;  and  on  the  other 
the  water  hissing  most  unamiably ;  between  them  the 
girl,  fashioned  as  if  by  the  divine  chisel  of  Prax- 


IN  THE   STABLE      '  123 

iteles.  A  devil  and  a  deep  sea  species  of  situation ! 
It  had  brought  out  unexpected  and  primal  instincts 
in  him.  A  cave  man — that's  what  he  had  been  for 
the  fraction  of  a  second.  Even  the  water  hadn't 
quite  cooled  his  ardor.  But  the  thought  had  come  to 
him  while  struggling  with  it  that  he  must  live,  for 
her  sake.  Amad  mustn't  get  her,  because  she  didn't 
want  him  to.  Did  he  himself  also  not  want 
him  to  now  ?  Of  course  not ;  he  was  purely  disinter- 
ested. Or,  at  least,  he  might  as  well  be.  No  use  of  his 
really  wanting  her  always  for  himself !  He  would  be 
like  a  child  crying  for  the  moon.  Luckily  he  didn't 
want  her — so  he  reiterated.  He  had  done  that  once 
or  twice  before,  mentally.  Their  separation  for  all 
eternity  actually  and  truly  had  begun.  He  was  here 
and  she,  somewhere  else.  Thus  it  would  be;  only 
more  so — for  he  would  be  farther  away — much  far- 
ther— soon.  And  it  was  well!  It  was  best.  It 
couldn't  be  better.  Star  of  the  Desert  kicked  the  side 
of  his  stall. 

"Peace,  thou  king  of  thy  kind,"  the  snoring  ser- 
vant woke  up  long  enough  to  say. 

The  Star  ceased  further  demonstrations ;  perhaps 
the  flattery  soothed  him.     Then  a  curtain  seemed 


124      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

drawn  down  upon  the  dervish's  mental  activities. 
The  god  of  slumber  relented  finally  and  was  kind  to 
him. 

The  daylight  shining  in  the  stable  awoke  him. 
He  was  stiff,  but  his  head  felt  clearer.  He  looked 
about  him.  In  his  stall,  the  king  of  his  kind 
munched,  turning  occasionally  to  eye  the  intruder 
with  suspicion.  The  latter  walked  over  to  him  and 
the  king  looked  dangerous.  But  the  dervish  liked 
horses,  and  beneath  the  stroking  fingers  his  royal 
highness  soon  became  less  haughty.  A  few  minutes 
later  the  servant  walked  in,  bringing  dates,  bread 
and  water,  and  followed  by  the  big  canine. 

"Eat,"  he  said  laconically,  setting  these  before 
his  guest. 

The  guest,  however,  first  said  his  prayers.  It 
wouldn't  have  done  to  miss  them. 

"By  the  faith,  he  prays  well,"  murmured  the  ser- 
vant. "It  is  good  fortune  to  have  such  a  one  in  the 
house." 

"Then  shall  I  stay  with  you  a  short  while,"  said 
the  other  unexpectedly.  The  thought  had  come  to 
him  that  he  might  find  it  difficult,  if  not  impossible. 


IN   THE   STABLE  125 

to  get  out  of  the  city  now.  Amad  would  have  every 
gate  well  watched.  It  might  be  better  to  rest  here 
for  a  day  or  two,  until  the  first  excitement,  attendant 
on  the  dervish's  escape,  had  subsided.  Then  he  would 
stand  a  better  chance  of  stealing  forth  undetected. 
Perhaps,  too,  he  would  hear  of  some  caravan  leaving 
and  might  find  opportunity  amid  the  confusion  of 
its  departure  to  take  his  own.  Besides,  his  joints 
ached  still,  and  he  could  imagine  himself  not  up  to 
the  mark  if  certain  exigencies  arose.  A  brief  period 
in  which  he  could  think  and  plan  would  certainly 
not  come  amiss. 

The  servant  looked  doubtful,  however.  "The 
master  likes  not  idlers,"  he  observed,  "though  you 
do  seem  both  a  good  and  a  pious  man !"  The  dervish 
had  added  a  posture  or  two,  more  than  necessary,  to 
his  prayers,  for  effect. 

"Why  need  I  idle  ?"  he  now  hastened  to  say.  "Is 
there  no  work  to  be  done  ?  Here,  in  the  garden,  for 
example?  Yonder  bushes  are  not  well-kept,  and 
there  is  some  weeding  to  be  attended  to  in  that  bed." 

"It  is  even  as  you  say,"  the  servant  thoughtfully 
admitted.    "The  boy  who  helped  me,  a  lazy  rascal, 


126      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

has  taken  to  his  heels,  and  one  pair  of  hands  can  not 
do  all,  with  the  Star  to  look  after.  But  the  wage? 
My  master  pays  little.    A  few  coppers  a  day — " 

"Charge  your  master  what  you  will  for  my  wage, 
and  add  it  to  your  own.  I  have  taken  a  vow  to  toil 
for  no  more  than  bare  sustenance."  Fanatical  Mo- 
hammedans sometimes  do  this. 

The  proposition  seemed  to  impress  the  servant. 
Indeed  the  dervish  could  not  have  found  a  better 
way  for  the  attainment  of  his  purpose.  The  pros- 
pect of  a  little  household  graft  is  to  a  Moslem  serv- 
ant what  the  magnet  is  to  iron.  It  draws  him  irre- 
sistibly. His  whole  life  is  made  up  of  petty  grafts. 
He  would  rather  cheat  and  make  so  much  money 
than  to  acquire  the  same  amount  honestly.  So  he 
looked  upon  the  dervish  with  new  favor.  Perhaps 
Allah  had  a  purpose  in  depositing  the  latter  on  his 
door-step.  "Allah  is  good.  Blessed  be  his  will!" 
he  murmured.    "It  sounds  fair." 

"Then  I  am  engaged?" 

"You  are." 

"Good!"  The  dervish  surveyed  the  back  of  the 
house,  dimly  seen  through  the  foliage.  It  appeared 
an  imposing  residence.    And  that  garden — it  offered 


IN  THE   STABLE  127 

a  snug  asylum.  The  sunshine  sifted  invitingly 
through  the  trees  and  warmed  the  earth.  Yes,  it 
was  a  nice  enough  place  for  a  hunted  man.  Did  he 
wish,  too,  just  to  catch  a  word  of  news  about  her 
before  he  left?  To  make  absolutely  certain  all  was 
well  with  her?  Of  course  it  was,  but — it  might  be 
possible  to  let  her  know,  through  some  messenger, 
that  he  was  still  alive.  It  would  relieve  any  doubts 
she  might  have.  He  had  told  her  he  wasn't  going 
to  be  killed,  yet  she  might  entertain  fears  that  he  had 
not  been  able  to  oblige  her  by  still  remaining  in  the 
land  of  the  living.  No  one  would  think  of  looking 
for  him  here.  It  was  an  ideal  refuge.  Besides,  the 
labor  would  be  light ;  no  Mohammedan  works  hard. 

"I'll  begin  on  those  vines,"  said  the  dervish.  Yes ; 
he  would  let  her  know  he  was  safe ;  that  any  appre- 
hensions she  might  have  of  being  now  a  merry 
widow  were  groundless.  "Those  branches  need  at- 
tention. By  the  way" —  again  looking  toward  the 
house —  "who  is  your  master?" 

"Amad  Ahl-Masr,"  said  the  other. 

"What?"    The  young  man  wheeled  swiftly. 


CHAPTER  X 

AT  AMAD's 

SNIPPING  leaves  in  the  garden  of  her  former 
husband,  almost  under  his  very  nose!  It  was 
not  arduous  work,  yet  there  was  also  nothing  mo- 
notonous about  it.  What  had  decided  him  to  re- 
main ?  In  the  first  place,  he  could  not  very  well  run 
away,  after  having  told  the  servant  he  wanted  to  find 
lodgment  there.  How  could  he  have  receded  either 
with  logic  or  grace?  If  he  had  showed  disinclina- 
tion to  stay,  his  conduct  would  excite  suspicion.  He 
couldn't  take  to  his  heels  without  attempting  expla- 
nations, because  the  garden  gate,  opening  on  the 
street,  was  locked.  He  would  have  to  gtt  himself 
discharged  and  then  shown  to  the  door.  He  didn't 
see  exactly  how  he  could  do  that. 

It  may  be,  also — for  where  there  is  a  will,  there's 
a  way — ^he  didn't  quite  want  himself,  discharged. 
There  was  a  certain  weird  fascination  about  being  a 
bona-fide  member  of  Amad's  own  household.    Pri- 

128 


AT  AMAD'S  12$ 

marily  the  dervish  had  been  entertained  very  charm- 
ingly by  her  and  now  he  was  being  employed,  indi- 
rectly, by  him.  He  seemed  doomed  to  be  a  kind  of 
family  fixture.  He  wouldn't  intentionally  have  in- 
truded upon  Amad,  but  now  that  he  was  here,  he  ex- 
perienced anew,  and  more  emphatically,  the  desire  to 
gaze  upon  him.  In  fact,  his  curiosity  had  developed 
amazingly  in  that  respect. 

He  wanted  to  know  what  manner  of  man  that 
more  or  less  lucky  Number  One  was.  Was  he  short, 
or  tall ;  handsome  or  the  reverse  ?  Had  he  the  bear- 
ing of  a  lover?  Did  he  carry  himself  like  a  hero? 
Had  his  good  looks  carried  all  (that  is,  her)  before 
them?  Was  their  divorce  merely  another  case  of 
temperamental  disagreement  ?  Would  she  some  day 
feel  sorry  and  want  to  go  back  to  him?  He  didn't 
like  to  think  about  that,  but  he  had  to.  It  belonged 
to  the  contingencies.  These  handsome  fellows,  ex- 
ternally, are  sometimes  not  very  handsome  inwardly. 
Maybe  he  had  neglected  her.  No;  no  one  would 
ever  neglect  her.  The  dervish  promptly  dismissed 
that  preposterous  contingency.  Perhaps  he  could 
gage  the  affair  better  when  he  saw  Amad,  and  he 
would  risk  a  good  deal  to  that  end.    To  leave  Da- 


T30      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

mascus  without  beholding  his  predecessor  would 
leave  an  aching  void  forever  in  the  adventure.  It 
would  be  like  a  story  uncompleted;  or  a  play  that 
broke  off  in  the  middle.  Ethically,  he  ought  to  see 
Amad.    He  had  to. 

But  what  if  Amad  saw  him?  That  was  another 
question  and  an  important  one.  Would  he  recog- 
nize the  dervish  ?  Did  he  know  him  by  sight  ?  Had 
Amad  arranged  with  the  dyer  to  gaze  upon  the  luck- 
less and  now  well-hated  mustahallf  It  was  possible ; 
for  the  dyer  and  his  whilom  guest  had  ridden  past 
Amad's  house  when  they  had  repaired  to  Light  of 
Life's.  The  dervish  recalled  now  they  had  gone 
somewhat  out  of  their  way  to  pass  in  front  of 
Amad's  imposing  residence.  He  had  thought 
nothing  of  their  so  doing  at  the  time,  but 
now  the  circumstance  seemed  fraught  with  signifi- 
cance. He  remembered  looking  up  at  Amad's  house 
and  fancying  he  detected  a  pair  of  eyes  gleaming 
behind  a  lattice.  It  might  have  been  merely  a  curi- 
ous maid  servant,  or  it  might  have  been  Amad.  The 
dervish  was  inclined  to  the  latter  conclusion. 

It  followed  then,  that  he  must  see  Amad,  without 
being  seen  by  him.    That  might  not  be  so  difficult, 


AT   AMAD'S  131 

for  Amad,  of  course,  would  never  dream  he  was 
there,  and  his  position,  as  only  an  assistant  gardener, 
or  stable  boy,  would  keep  the  dervish  very  much  in 
the  background.  Amad  might  hunt  for  him  fever- 
ishly without ;  he  would  scour  the  highways  and  the 
byways  of  the  city,  but  he  certainly  wouldn't  look 
for  him  in  his  own  back  yard.  This  then  must  be  the 
spot  of  all  spots  for  safety.  It  was  either  that,  or 
the  most  dangerous.  Which?  At  that  moment, 
through  the  branches  behind  which  he  stood,  he  saw 
a  face. 

A  man  stood  at  a  back  window  of  the  house  and 
was  looking  out.  He  was  well  over  seventy.  In  his 
evil  and  wizened  visage,  above  the  white  beard  like 
ashes  on  his  breast,  his  eyes  were  glowing  coals  of 
fire.  They  were  angry  eyes  and  also  most  determined. 
He  was  gorgeously  dressed,  his  robes  being  of  the 
finest  texture  and  the  details  of  his  attire,  besides 
indicating  his  opulence  and  worldly  importance,  de- 
noted further  that  he  could  boast  of  being  a  sherf, 
or  descendant  of  the  prophet.  His  turban  was  of 
dark  green  and  on  it  shone  a  superb  jewel.  Pictor- 
ially  he  was  perfect.  He  could  have  dominated  in 
a  great  canvas  by  Fortuny. 


132      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

The  observer  in  the  garden  had  given  a  great 
start.  Was  that  Amad? — that?  Fortunately,  the 
leaves  fairly  screened  the  dervish,  for  in  his  surprise 
he  forgot  to  turn  away  his  face.  That,  his  predeces- 
sor— that?  He  could  almost  have  laughed.  The 
dyer  had  said  Amad  was  of  just  the  "right"  age. 
The  right  age  ?  That  wicked-looking  old  man — ^be- 
side whom  she  was  as  a  beautiful  white  flower ! 

But  perhaps  this  was  not  Amad,  at  all ;  only  some 
other  member  of  the  household,  some  relative?  Her 
grand  father-in-law !  He  was  old  enough  for  that, 
the  dervish  muttered  to  himself  savagely  through  his 
teeth. 

"You — "  The  man  at  the  window,  whoever  he 
was,  called  out  a  name  loudly.  The  voice  had  a 
familiar  sound.  At  first,  the  dervish  thought  it 
meant  to  simimon  him.  But  this  was  not  so.  The 
servant  who  had  befriended  the  dervish  the  night 
before  came  hastily  out  of  the  stable  and  hurried 
into  the  house.  A  moment  later  the  dervish  saw  him 
at  the  elderly  person's  side. 

"I  am  here,  Amad  Ahl-Masr.  What  is  your  pleas- 
ure?" 


AT  AMAD'S  133; 

The  dervish  scarcely  needed  now  the  confirmation 
of  those  words  to  assure  him  of  the  truth,  and  the 
tragedy  of  one  so  young,  so  fair,  married  to  this 
man,  came  over  him  as  a  shock.  He  shouldn't  have 
felt  that  way,  he  told  himself,  but  he  did.  Spring 
wedded  to  winter !  It  often  happened.  There  were 
reasons  for  it  happening.  Nice,  practical,  worldly 
reasons!  The  girl  had  beauty — wonderful  beauty. 
In  a  mental  background  he  saw  Light  of  Light,  and 
the  dervish  scowled.  An  evil  woman  that!  Indig- 
nation began  to  seethe  in  his  brain.  He  forgot  he 
was  a  sentimental  iconoclast  and  should  only  shrug 
his  shoulders  or  lift  his  eyebrows  over  these  things. 
He  forgot  that  he,  also,  cut  no  heroic  figure,  a  hus- 
band who  had  been  bought  for  her,  a  Number  Two, 
and  not  much  of  a  Number  Two,  at  that.  He  experi- 
enced a  rather  vivid  interest  in  what  Amad  was  say- 
ing to  the  servant.  The  latter's  prompt  appearance 
had  relieved  what  might  have  been  a  somewhat  em- 
barrassing contretemps.  There  was  a  possibility  it 
might  even  yet  develop  into  one.  Indeed,  there  was 
a  strong  probability  it  would. 

"Who  is  that  fellow  ?"  Amad  pointed.    His  voice 


134      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

was  savage.  He  had  probably  slept  little.  The 
mustahall's  escape  must  have  enraged  him  beyond 
measure. 

The  dervish,  with  his  back  to  the  house,  gave  a 
stronger  snip  with  the  shears.  Would  the  servant 
relate  how  he,  the  dervish,  had  come  there  ?  Amad 
would,  in  that  event,  put  two  and  two  together. 
The  dervish  drew  his  breath.  The  revelation  of 
Amad's  personality  had  injected  a  new  element  of 
interest  in  the  affair.  That  liar  of  a  dyer !  He  was  a 
bigger  one  than  the  dervish  had  dreamed.  To  think 
that  he  had  ever  permitted  himself  to  be  pitted 
against  her  in  an  unequal  contest  with  this 
villainous  old  man!  Dolt  that  he  had  been!  And 
what  scoundrels  they  were !  He  could  have  squeezed 
that  dyer's  windpipe  and  found  it  a  pleasant  diver- 
sion. A  pander  of  youth!  Pah!  The  young  man 
did  not  stop  to  think  just  then,  that  youth  sometimes 
makes  the  mistake  of  thinking  it  may  endure  age 
when  accompanied  by  great  coffers  of  diamonds  and 
gold,  and,  too  late,  learns  its  mistake.  This  bit  of 
pessimism  did  not  insinuate  itself  into  his  worldly- 
wise  mind  at  the  moment.  Perhaps  a  certain 
pair  of  lips  had  given  a  vacillating  touch  to  his 


AT   AMAD'S  135 

cynicism.  It  sometimes  has  that  effect,  making  an 
unreasoning  vassal  of  its  victim.  A  dangerous 
fealty ! 

"Who  is  that  fellow?"  Amad  had  asked. 

Luckily  the  servant  had  reasons  of  his  own  for 
not  entering  into  particulars  as  to  just  how  he 
had  come  by  his  new  assistant. 

"He  is  a  most  competent  helper,"  replied  the  serv- 
ant, "whom  I  have  engaged  to  take  the  place  of  the 
unreliable  fellow  who  left  a  fortnight  since." 

"He  comes  well  recommended  ?" 

"Excellently,"  Hed  the  man.  The  grafting  in- 
stinct could  not  be  resisted.  It  was  fortunate  for 
the  dervish  he  had  promised  the  fellow  his  wages. 
"I  know  him  well.  And  for  pay,  he  will  be  content 
with — "  A  moment  he  hesitated,  then  mentioned 
an  amount. 

"More  than  enough !"  returned  the  old  man.  "But 
never  mind.  I  called  you  to — "  He  murmured  a 
few  instructions  which  the  dervish  did  not  hear  and 
the  two  receded  from  the  window. 

The  young  man  continued  to  snip,  but  not  always 
advisedly.  His  heart  was  not  in  his  task.  What 
was  going  on  in  the  big  house?  He  did  not  like 


136      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

Amad's  expression.  The  latter  was,  no  doubt,  much 
put  out,  yet  there  was  a  certain  assurance  or  wicked 
pertinacity  in  his  eyes,  auguring  no  disposition  to 
accept  the  seemingly  inevitable.  He  was  obviously 
one  not  easily  defeated.  What,  however,  could  he 
do?  Were  not  his  hands  tied?  The  dervish  could 
conceive  of  no  means  whereby  the  other  could  en- 
compass his  purpose  now.  Her  second  marriage 
was,  by  this  time,  a  matter  of  record  on  the  pages  of 
the  official  register  at  the  sabit.  Yet  in  spite  of  this 
reassuring  fact,  the  young  man  experienced  a  new 
disquietude.  The  very  silence  of  the  garden  seemed 
menacing,  and  a  premonition  that  trouble  was  in  the 
air  seized  him.  Amad  could,  of  course,  resort  to 
violence  and  carry  her  off.  The  dervish,  however, 
did  not  believe  he  would  proceed  to  this  extremity, 
for  the  rich  diamond  merchant  had  both  position  and 
reputation  to  maintain.  He  was  an  important  per- 
son in  the  community  and  would  guard  his  own  dig- 
nity and  good  name  as  a  jewel  of  price.  He  would 
not  stamp  himself  as  a  free-booter.  He  had  too 
much  wisdom  and  cunning  for  that.    What  then  ? 

The  day  seemed  interminable.     After  a  time  the 
man  servant  returned  and  saddled  the  Star.  As  the 


AT   AMAD'S  137 

fellow  led  the  horse  with  its  picturesque  and  barbaric 
trappings  to  the  gate  the  dervish  ventured  a  query. 
Was  tlie  master  going  out?  The  servant  replied 
curtly  that  curiosity  ill  became  one  of  the  other's 
humble  position,  and  the  dervish  was  forced  to  ac- 
cept the  rebuke  in  silence  although  he  had  become  al- 
most fiercely  inquisitive.  Was  the  girl  still  in  her 
own  house?  And  Light  of  Life? — what,  at  that 
moment,  was  her  attitude  toward  her  stepdaughter  ? 
Slowly — too  slowly  time  went  by !  About  the  mid- 
dle of  the  morning,  the  dervish  ventured  uneasily 
toward  the  gate,  approaching  near  enough,  amid  the 
shrubbery,  to  ascertain  that  it  was  locked.  The  serv- 
ant took  no  chances  of  his  new  assistant  escaping. 
He  needed  that  extra  wage.  The  dervish  glanced  at 
the  wall,  twenty  feet  high.  It  would  not  be  easy  to 
get  over  that.  Did  he  wish  to  leave  Amad's  service 
already?  Not  exactly!  But  a  great  restlessness  to 
know  at  once  what  had  become  of  the  girl  moved 
him. 

Seconds  dragged  into  minutes,  and  minutes  into 
hours.  Once  he  heard  soldiers  go  by  and  caught  the 
sound  of  muttering  voices  without.  Momentarily 
they  diverted  his  attention.    Was  anything  amiss  in 


138      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

the  city  ?  These  people  seemed  excited.  He  remem- 
bered the  servant's  words  of  last  night — the  conver- 
sation between  Fitzgerald  and  the  guide,  which  he 
had  overheard  a  few  days  before — the  talk  of  an  up- 
rising against  the  Christians.  One  usually  happened 
about  every  so  often.  He,  himself,  had  listened  to 
murmurings  in  the  bazaars  and  in  the  courts  of  holy 
places  for  some  time.  But  the  soldiers  receded  and 
he  heard  no  more  of  them.  The  quiet  that  followed 
seemed  greater  than  before  and  his  thoughts  quickly 
reverted  once  more  to  that  other  channel. 

It  was  now  the  siesta  hour.  He  looked  toward  the 
house  door,  the  one  by  which  the  servant  had  entered. 
Not  a  sound  came  from  within.  Amad,  no  doubt, 
had  gone  out,  and  certain  of  his  trusted  servants, 
also,  to  search  for  him.  A  moment  the  young 
man  hesitated;  that  house  exercised  an  extraordi- 
nary attraction  for  him.  He  wanted  to  master  its 
secrets,  if  there  were  any.  He  wished  to  behold  its 
chambers  of  mystery  and  penetrate  into  the  veritable 
sanctum  sanctorum  of  its  master.  The  dervish  laid 
down  the  snippers  and  walked  softly  but  swiftly 
toward  the  entrance  in  the  rear  wall,  which  was  as 


AT   AMAD'S  139 

solid  and  forbidding  as  that  of  a  prison;  the  door 
yielded  and  he  entered. 

He  found  himself  in  a  dimly  lighted  storeroom, 
and  for  a  few  moments  stood  listening,  but  he 
caught  no  sound.  A  narrow  stairway  led  upward, 
and  after  making  sure  no  one  observed  him,  he 
started  to  mount  it.  At  the  top  he  peered  furtively 
into  a  beautiful  mandarah,  or  apartment  where  vis- 
itors are  received.  It  was  empty  and  he  ventured 
first  to  linger  before  it ;  then  to  enter.  None  of  the 
servants  would  probably  intrude  there,  at  this  hour 
of  the  day,  in  the  master's  absence.  Swiftly  the  der- 
vish studied  his  surroundings.  The  room  was  sump- 
tuously furnished.  Rugs,  each  of  which  was  worth 
a  fortune,  were  lavishly  scattered  about.  A  collector 
would  have  turned  green  with  envy  at  sight  of  them. 
The  paneled  ceiling  shone  with  rich  hues.  On  a  low 
silver  table  were  writing  materials,  including  a  gold- 
decorated  ink-horn,  and  an  ivory  mittah.  In  a  cor- 
ner stood  a  mighty  safe.  It  was  the  only  discordant 
note;  bulky,  European,  obtrusive.  It  suggested, 
however,  a  practical  turn  of  mind  on  the  part  of  its 
owner.     Amad  wasn't  going  to  trust  his  treasures 


140      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

to  flimsy  artistic  oriental  strong-boxes.  That  safe 
was  an  indication  of  his  character.  What  he  got, 
he  meant  to  keep.  He  wouldn't  let  others  take  from 
him,  if  he  could  help  it. 

The  dervish  stood  there  motionless  for  some  mo- 
ments. He  did  not  realize  how  long.  The  place 
seemed  to  hold  him,  to  exercise  a  haunting,  but  not 
altogether  agreeable  fascination  for  him.  He  did 
not  see  it  empty,  but  pictured  Amad  there,  and  not 
alone.  Another — in  the  first  flower  of  girlhood — 
had  once  been  mistress  of  the  great  house.  She,  his 
wife?  Incredible!  He  could  not  believe — and  yet 
he  had  to.  The  atmosphere  of  that  palatial  interior 
began  to  be  depressing.  He  experienced  a  decided 
melancholy — perhaps  because  he  hadn't  eaten  any- 
thing since  early  morn  and  then  had  partaken  only 
of  a  few  dates.  One  can't  be  cheerful  on  an  empty 
stomach.  At  any  rate,  he  had  had  enough  of  Amad's 
house ! 

About  to  leave  the  room  and  descend  to  the  gar- 
den, the  dervish  heard  suddenly  a  noise  from  the 
front — a  loud  knocking,  at  the  street  door,  no  doubt. 
It  awakened  the  house  to  a  new  and  unexpected  life ; 
a  woman  servant  came  down  from  somewhere  and 


AT   AMAD'S  141 

there  was  the  sound  of  scurrying  feet  in  different 
directions.  Siestas,  long  drawn  out  by  domestics, 
had  been  rudely  interrupted.  An  agitated  hum  from 
remote  quarters  seemed  to  say  the  master  had  re- 
turned before  he  was  expected. 

But  it  was  not  the  master.  The  dervish  heard 
the  smooth  oily  voice  of  his  old  friend,  the  dyer, 
bidding  certain  others  to  step  into  the  mandarah. 

"We  were  to  wait  here  the  coming  of  Amad  Ahl- 
Masr,"  he  said  to  a  servant  without. 

"Be  pleased  to  go  in  and  wait,"  came  the  answer. 

They  were  now  at  the  door ;  the  young  man  would 
have  retreated  the  way  he  had  entered  the  house,  but 
it  was  too  late.  He  looked  around  him ;  the  window 
was  barred;  he  could  not  escape  thither.  Then  his 
eye  fell  on  the  safe  that  stood  in  a  corner.  Be- 
tween it  and  the  wall  was  a  little  space,  and  quickly 
he  availed  himself  of  that  scanty  place  for  conceal- 
ment. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  SUMMONS 

THE  room,  like  most  Moslem  apartments,  was 
fortunately  but  dimly  lighted.  The  dervish 
was  not  very  comfortable,  however,  either  in  mind 
or  body,  and  he  might  be  less  so  shortly.  His  desire 
for  information  was  certainly  about  to  be  gratified, 
but  at  what  cost  to  himself?  He  tried  not  to  think 
of  the  future;  the  present  was  sufficiently  interest- 
ing. Though  certain  projections  in  the  steel  strong- 
box cut  into  a  shoulder  and  arm,  he  felt  no  pain.  He 
heard  a  servant  moving  about,  probably  bringing  in 
the  vessel  of  silver  or  brass,  containing  charcoal 
for  coffee.  Soon  the  fragrance  of  it  was  wafted  to 
him — other  odors,  too;  that  of  burning  benzoin  or 
aloes-wood,  in  the  mankal,  mingled  with  the  delicate 
aroma  of  the  "mountain  tobacco"  of  Syria,  in  nar- 
ghiles. The  atmosphere  was  sensuous  and  still;  no 
one  spoke  until  these  preliminary  arrangements  for 
comfort  had  been  completed  and  the  attendant  had 

142 


THE   SUMMONS  143 

departed.  Then  the  dervish  heard  the  voice  of  Sadi, 
the  saddler.  His  Nemesis !  He  was  there.  He 
could  have  well  dispensed  with  him — an  older  friend 
than  the  dyer — antedating  his  acquaintance  with 
Amad,  or  her ! 

"You  were  telling  me  the  search  for  this — dervish 
has  been  unavailing,"  Sadi  began.  He  hesitated 
before  the  word  "dervish,"  but  it  might  have  been 
inadvertent. 

"It  has."  The  dyer's  voice  was  mournful.  They 
were  all  seated  now  on  Amad's  cushions,  while  be- 
fore them  the  water-bottles  bubbled  steadily.  "I  re- 
gret no  trace  has  yet  been  found  of  him.  The  fellow 
has  completely  disappeared." 

"The  search  has  been  thorough?"  Again  the  sad- 
dler spoke. 

"Can  you  doubt  it?  Even  the  low  carriers  of 
water,  the  hawkers,  the  sakka  sharbeh  and  others  of 
that  class  have  been  enlisted  in  the  task.  And  do 
they  not  know  all  the  nooks  and  corners  ?  Could  a 
mouse  escape  them,  half-beggars  themselves — ac- 
customed to  all  kinds  of  sleeping  places?  No,  no,  if 
the  scoundrel  were  alive  in  the  city,  he  would  have 
been  found  by  this  time.    He  has  been  drowned," 


144      ALADDIN    FROM   BROADWAY. 

"Perhaps  not,"  observed  Sadi  thoughtfully. 
"You  do  not  know  his  resourcefulness.  I  mean," 
he  added  hastily,  "you  may  see  by  what  he  did  last 
night,  he  is  not  one  without  expedients.  He  might 
have  escaped  the  swift  waters.  He  is  strong  and 
supple — an  athlete.  That  is,  I  should  infer  so  from 
the  look  I  had  of  him,"  in  a  peculiar  tone,  "that  day 
of  the  wedding.  Also,  he  is  a  hadji  (pilgrim  from 
Mecca),  and  has  crossed  deserts.  He  has  faced 
death  a  few  times  before^  and,''  slowly,  "escaped. 
Though  we  have  not  discovered  him  he  still  may  be 
hidden  somewhere  in  Damascus.  The  hemales  may 
have  overlooked  some  place  in  their  search.  He 
may  even  be  nearer  than  we  know."  The  dervish 
hardly  breathed  now.  Sadi's  perceptions  were  keen. 
In  the  past  he  had  been  the  deuce  of  a  bore  and  he 
promised  to  become  even  more  tiresome  in  the 
future. 

"I  hold  he  is  dead,"  said  the  dyer  with  conviction. 
"Allah,"  piously,  "would  not  permit  a  person  of  such 
iniquity  to  go  unpunished.  Never  before  was  there 
ingratitude  so  foul!  Our  revered  friend,  Amad, 
raised  him  from  the  dirt.  We  fed  and  clothed  him, 


THE   SUMMONS  145 

only  to  be  betrayed  basely.  The  scoundrel  sold  him 
out.  A  blackmailing  mustahall!  a — "  The  dyer's 
indignation  was  getting  the  better  of  him  and  more 
forcible  epithets  fell  from  his  lips.  Perhaps  they 
were  but  a  mild  repetition  of  those  he  had  heard 
from  Amad.  The  old  saw  that  listeners  seldom  hear 
good  of  themselves  was  certainly  true  in  this  case. 
The  dervish  should  have  felt  so  small  that  the  insuffi- 
cient space  into  which  he  was  squeezed  would  have 
proven  all  too  sufficient.  There  was  no  doubt  that 
the  dyer  himself  was  feeling  small  for  he  had  ex- 
perienced the  full  weight  of  the  diamond  merchant's 
disapproval.  The  dervish  had  been  the  choice  of  the 
dyer — had  been  vouched  for  by  him.  And  in  what 
a  position  had  the  dervish  left  his  sponsor?  A 
scurvy  trick ! 

"He  seemed  so  holy,  too!"  Sadi  smiled  oddly. 
"Who  would  not  have  trusted  him  ?"  bemoaned  the 
dyer  bitterly.  "Why,  he  knew  his  Koran  as  well  as 
the  preacher  in  the  alcove  who  addresses  the  pil- 
grims, before  they  walk  around  the  sacred  black 
stone.  Verses  fairly  dripped  from  his  lips."  Again 
Sadi  smiled,  but  said  nothing.  "And  when  he  prayed. 


146      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

he  never  skipped  a  word.  Surely  any  man  would 
have  been  deceived  by  a  dissembler  so  base!  The 
worthy  may  always  be  fooled  by  the  unworthy." 

There  was  martyrdom  in  the  dyer's  tone ;  he  was 
attempting  to  justify  himself.  "I,  so  frank — so 
honest !"  he  murmured.  "To  have  innocently  served 
our  esteemed  patron  so  ill!"  He  puffed  vigorously 
like  a  big  aggrieved  baby  at  a  bottle.  His  fat  cheeks 
worked  bellows- fashion,  when  full  seeming  almost 
to  burst  with  resentment. 

The  others  said  nothing.  One  was  the  dyer's 
companion  on  the  memorable  night  when  the  dervish 
had  consented  to  be  married.  He,  too,  looked 
downcast.  A  reflection  of  the  dyer's  emotions 
seemed  to  have  descended  on  him.  As  the  other  was 
a  satellite  of  Amad,  so  this  person  may  have  been  a 
satellite  of  the  dyer.  They  were  touched  with  the 
same  stick.  The  fourth  man  of  the  party  was  a 
stranger  to  the  dervish.  At  least,  he  did  not  know 
his  voice  when  he  heard  it  later.  The  dervish  did 
not  attempt  to  peer  out  upon  the  little  company. 
His  position  was  sufficiently  precarious  without  tak- 
ing any  unnecessary  risks.  He  felt  that  Sadi  was 
there  for  some  peculiar  purpose  of  his  own,  which, 


THE   SUMMONS  147 

perhaps,  he  kept  to  himself.  And  the  presence  of 
the  other  three — what  did  it  portend?  They  had 
not  come  merely  to  smoke  and  drink  coffee. 

"Shall  we  permit  this  bandit  of  the  desert — this 
thief,  if  not  worse — to  laugh  in  his  sleeve?"  The 
dyer  put  out  a  closed  fist.  He  was  surrounded  with 
smoke  now  like  a  disgruntled  volcano. 

"Allah  forbid!"  Two  lesser  volcanoes  rumbled 
an  echo.  Sadi  was  silent.  He  seemed  thinking. 
He  reached  for  a  cardamom  seed  and  held  it  over 
his  coffee,  as  if  debating  whether  or  not  to  drop  it 
in,  but  finally  decided  on  a  little  perfumed  flavor  for 
his  beverage. 

"There  is  a  saying,  duplicity  should  be  met  with 
duplicity,"  went  on  the  dyer, 

"It  is  a  good  saying." 

"How  much  truer  is  it  that,  when  a  scoundrel  robs 
you,  you  are  entitled  to  resort  to  any  means  to  get 
back  your  treasure?  Especially  when  that  treasure 
is  one  so  great  as  our  patron  has  lost!  For  as  the 
prophet  says :  'More  precious  than  any  other  posses- 
sion, a  shapely  young  houri  is  the  true  solace  of  a 
man's  declining  years !'  " 

"Well  said !"    They  fairly  smacked  their  lips  over 


148      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

this  sentiment.  The  dervish  bit  one  of  his.  To 
think  of  her  at  their  mercy !  Sybarites !  Libertines ! 
He  wondered  to  how  much  more  of  this  kind  of 
talk  he  would  have  to  listen  ?  He  could  imagine  the 
smirk  on  the  dyer's  fat  face.  Again  he  seemed  to 
see  Amad's  wicked  eyes  in  the  evil  old  face.  And 
he,  the  dervish,  had  been  the  ally  or  the  dupe  of  this 
precious  crowd!  He  had  actually  lent  himself  to 
their  cause.  But  for  that  unconscious  wrong  he  had 
done  her,  he  would  atone  if  he  could.  They  made 
other  comments  in  this  connection,  very  personal 
ones,  as  some  men  may  over  pipes,  albeit  with  much 
ostensible  sympathy  for  Amad's  loss.  The  sly 
libidinous  scoundrels!  And  they  dared  talk  about 
his  dishonesty  and  baseness !  He  wanted  to  spring 
out  and  bump  their  heads  together.  But  indigna- 
tion against  them  was  tempered  by  another  feel- 
ing—even a  stronger  one.  The  dyer's  hypocritical 
words  about  the  end  justifying  the  means? — or 
something  of  that  kind? — what  did  they  signify? 
"Well,  Amad  will  soon  have  his  pearl  back  again.'* 
"No  doubt.  Only,  suppose  this  robber  of  a  sub- 
stitute husband  were  not  really  dead?" 

The  "robber  of  a  substitute  husband's"  heart  was 


THE   SUMMONS  149 

beating  faster.  The  little  place  could  hardly  con- 
tain him  now.  Amad  soon  to  have  his  "pearl  back 
again" ! 

"What  if  the  canal  hadn't  really  swallowed  the 
mustahall?"  continued  the  last  speaker, 

"What  matter" — with  a  cunning  laugh — "after 
what  we  are  to  do,  is  done  ?" 

"True!   He  would  not  dare,  then,  to  appear." 

"The  oaths  of  four  men — " 

"Not  to  mention  Light  of  Life  !'* 

"He  would  be  denounced  as  a  vile  impostor,  if  he 
attempted  to  gainsay  us." 

"But  he  is  dead,"  said  the  dyer.  "And  that  prob- 
ably disposes  of  his  making  more  trouble.  Yet  when 
I  think  of  him — how  Amad  caused  me  to  serve 
him  even  like  the  son  of  a  sultan,  and  how  he  re- 
paid all  that  charity,  I  might  wish  it  were  not  so 
and  that  he  stood  here  for  me  to  deal  with !" 

"Yes;  if  he  were  only  here,"  they  murmured  re- 
gretfully and  sucked  at  their  tubes,  when  a  clatter 
of  hoofs  was  heard  without.  The  dyer  got  up. 
"There  is  our  worthy  friend  and  patron  now,"  he 
said. 

They  hastily  abandoned  pipes  and  cushions  and 


I50      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

moved  toward  the  door.  "And  Fatma,  the  beloved  ?'* 
continued  one  of  the  men.  "She  is  safe,  where  no 
brigand  may  again  force  his  unwelcome  presence 
upon  her?" 

"Amad  has  looked  to  that,"  answered  the  dyer 
significantly.  "At  first  I  thought  he  would  kill  her. 
But  he  did  not.  Her  beauty  melted  his  rage.  Per- 
haps her  tears — "  Again  that  fiction!  "Be  that  as 
it  may,  you  can  rest  assured  no  one  will  again  be 
permitted  to  approach  his  dearest,  his  most  precious 
treasure.  She  is  now  as  safe  as  his  bags  of  gold 
in  yonder  safe  in  the  corner,"  he  laughed. 

A  moment  later  their  eyes  swept  back  to  the  big 
iron  receptacle  alluded  to.  A  corner  of  the  dervish's 
cloak  protruded  very  slightly  from  the  other  side. 
He  could  not  have  helped  it,  the  space  was  so  small. 
That  tiny  bit  of  dun-colored  garment  seemed  to 
attract  the  attention  of  one  of  the  men — the  dyer's 
satellite — for  his  gaze  lingered.  It  was  more  sober 
than  the  other  tints  and  did  not  quite  harmonize; 
it  could  not  belong  to  a  cushion  or  hanging.  Was 
this  circumstance  about  to  dawn  upon  him?  Would 
his  somewhat  sluggish  mind  become  involved  in  a 
deductive  process  which  proceeding  from  a  small 


THE   SUMMONS  151 

enough  cause  would  lead  to  a  large  and  startling 
effect — a  most  disagreeable  one  for  the  dervish? 
Luckily  for  the  latter,  at  that  psychological  moment 
the  voice  of  Amad  was  heard.  It  claimed  attention. 
It  stimulated  the  others  and  it  stimulated  the  sat- 
ellite's satellite  to  one  end.  He  did  not  wish  to  be 
outdone  in  alacrity  in  paying  his  respects  to  the 
rich  diamond  merchants.  The  dyer,  Sadi  and  the 
other  man  were  already  at  the  threshold.  The  fel- 
low quickly  followed  the  trio  through  the  door- 
way, out  toward  the  front  to  meet  him  whose  ad- 
vancing footsteps  might  already  be  heard  ringing 
on  the  marble.  That  tread  did  not  seem  to  imply 
infirmity  of  purpose;  it  had  a  definite  combative 
sound. 

The  dervish  behind  the  safe  waited  no  longer, 
but  got  up  swiftly;  they  might  intercept  him  but  he 
dared  not  remain  there  so  must  needs  take  a  des- 
perate chance.  The  heavy  rugs  drowned  the  sound 
of  his  footsteps  as  he  passed  like  a  flash  across  the 
room.  Without,  he  saw  that  the  dyer  and  the  others 
were  turned  from  him,  and  in  the  dim  light  he 
darted  across  a  shadowy  space,  reached  the  back 
stairway,  and,  undetected,  crept  softly  down  it. 


152      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

In  the  rear  of  the  garden  once  more,  the  mind  of 
the  dervish  was  in  a  whirl.  They  were  going  to  re- 
,  store  her  to  Amad  and  he  couldn't  prevent  it.  A 
preposterous  assertion,  in  view  of  the  law,  unless? — 
They  could  perjure  themselves  by  swearing  that 
Amad  had  never  really  divorced  her;  that  they  had 
been  present  and  heard  him  say  "I  divorce  you"  only 
twice.  This  would  constitute  the  "lesser  separation" 
and  the  diamond  merchant  could  take  her  back  with- 
out vexatious  formalities.  But  Amad  had  already 
acquiesced  in  that  second  marriage  ceremony;  he 
had  offered  no  objection  to  it.  The  written  records 
showed  it  and  all  his  minions  or  hirelings  could  not 
swear  it  away.  Yet  those  words,  the  "oaths  of  four 
men?" — ^what  did  they  mean? — what  could  they? 

A  sudden  baneful  light  illumined  his  mind.  The 
four  persons  could  swear  that  he,  the  substitute  hus- 
band, had  already  pronounced  the  triple  divorce  in 
their  presence.  Oh,  it  was  simple ;  the  very  acme  of 
simplicity  and  devilishness !  And  their  affidavits 
would  be  entered  after  the  record  of  the  second 
marriage,  in  a  great  glazed  parchment  book  in  the 
chamber  of  public  documents.  Amad  would  prob- 
ably pay  for  an  extra  illumined  letter  or  two  as 


THE   SUMMONS  153 

special  reward  for  the  poor  mugawir  or  student  who 
transcribed  the  text.  He  might  even  have  it  done 
in  beautiful  vowel-pointed  Arabic  which  costs  dou- 
ble. The  diamond  merchant  was  still  in  the  contest 
— ^very  much  so;  in  fact,  it  was  he,  the  dervish, 
who  now  seemed  distinctly  out  of  it.  He  appeared 
almost  ludicrously  helpless;  and  she?  What  could 
courage  avail  her  now?  Light  of  Life  was  no 
doubt  watching  the  girl  closely.  The  dyer  had  in- 
timated as  much — that  she  was  practically  a 
prisoner,  and  the  dervish  could  imagine  the  vin- 
dictiveness  of  that  virago  as  a  warden.  The  old 
termagant  might  even  attempt  to  beat  her.  Moslem 
stepmothers  are  quite  capable  of  doing  that.  The 
dervish's  fists  closed,  and  the  veins  pulsated  on  his 
forehead  at  the  thought. 

He  saw  Amad  glance  out  of  the  window  once 
with  a  grim  smile.  That  facial  change  was  diabol- 
ically expressive.  They  were  "fixing  up  things" 
in  there  and  they  were  wasting  no  time  about  it. 
Obstacles  had  but  added  a  few  degrees  of  fervor  to 
Amad's  impatience.  It  needed  little  imagination  to 
picture  the  detestable  scene  being  enacted  within: 
the  dyer  "nibbing"  the  pen,  his  ink-horn  close  at 


154      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

hand;  the  others  watching,  the  saddler  somewhat 
aloof;  the  diamond  merchant,  with  malignant 
shrewdness,  suggesting  a  word  here  and  there. 
They  would  certainly  divorce  her  completely  and 
beyond  peradventure.  There  wouldn't  be  a  flaw 
in  the  divorce.  It  would  be  as  perfect  as  one  of 
Amad's  own  diamonds — the  black  kind.  As  a  bene- 
dict, the  dervish  wouldn't  have  a  leg  to  stand  on. 
He  would  be  lucky  if  he  saved  his  neck. 

Night  descended,  a  most  funereal  sort  of  night, 
and  found  him  working  mechanically.  He  had 
wrought  all  manner  of  havoc  among  the  vines  and 
was  now  clipping  just  to  hear  the  sound  of  the 
snippers.  The  servant  came  out  and  called  him  into 
the  stable  for  supper.  He  was  not  hungry  and  he 
wanted  to  stay  in  the  garden  but  he  had  no  excuse 
for  remaining  there.  So  he  forced  down  his  throat 
a  few  more  dates  and  a  crust. 

"In  the  name  of  Allah !"  The  servant  uttered  the 
customary  words  before  eating.  He,  too,  appeared 
absent-minded,  and  spoke  perfunctorily. 

"Any  news  in  the  town?"  said  the  dervish.  He 
had  no  desire  to  make  conversation,  but  he 
thought  the  servant  might  tell  something  of  his 


THE   SUMMONS 


DO 


master,  where  the  latter  had  gone  when  he  had 
ridden  forth  on  the  Star,  and  what  he  had  done. 

At  his  question,  the  servant  looked  at  him  curious- 
ly and  the  dervish  noted  in  his  eyes  an  unusual  sup- 
pressed gleam.  "News?"  repeated  the  man  and 
pointed  to  a  window.    "What  does  that  look  like  ?" 

"A  reflection  in  the  sky,"  said  the  dervish  dully. 

"It  is  that."     Significantly. 

"Some  house  in  the  poor  quarter  aflame,  I  sup- 
pose?"   In  the  same  tone. 

"Some  house,  or  houses,"  answered  the  man. 

"Soldiers  went  by  to-day,"  said  the  dervish.  But 
he  was  not  thinking  of  the  soldiers,  or  the  flames, 
or  anything  that  might  portend. 

"A  wonderful  night,"  supplemented  the  servant, 
with  covert  meaning. 

"Is  it  ?"  replied  the  dervish,  with  gaze  far  away. 

"Don't  you  think  so?"  The  servant  asked  the 
question  sharply.  Was  the  dervish  stupid  or  less 
pious  than  he  had  seemed? 

"I?    Surely  it  is  a  wonderful  night." 

"But  not  for  Christians!"  breathed  the  man 
softly.  "And  not  one  may  leave  the  city  now  for 
the  exits  are  all  watched.    Any  left  in  town  will  be 


156      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

destroyed.  It  is  the  will  of  Allah.  Several  inspired 
holy  men  have  so  proclaimed  and  it  can  not  be  other- 
wise." 

"Indeed  ?  And  was  it  on  this  business  your  mas- 
ter went  forth  to-day? — ^to  bait  the  dogs  of  unbe- 
lievers— to  set  the  populace  against  them — ?" 

"My  master's  business  is  his  business,"  retorted 
the  servant  shortly.  "You  would  do  well  to  re- 
member— " 

"I  should  like  to  go  out  this  evening,"  interrupted 
the  dervish  suddenly. 

"Why?"     Surprised. 

"Perhaps  even  I,  too,  may  have  the  blessed  chance 
to  strike  a  blow  for  the  prophet.  Do  you  think  I 
have  any  love  for  these  Christians  ?  After  working 
hard  all  day,  is  not  a  man  entitled  to  a  little  pious 
diversion  which  will  give  him  a  better  place  in 
Paradise?"  He  spoke  with  enthusiasm — ^the  spirit 
of  a  fanatic.  "Do  you  come  with  me,  out  there  in 
the  streets,"  he  added. 

"I?"  said  the  servant  somewhat  falteringly.  "But 
there  is  talk  of  rioting.     Think  of  the  danger!" 

"Shall  a  true  believer  think  of  that?"  the  dervish 
replied  scornfully. 


THE    SUMMONS  157 

"There  is  work  for  me  to  do  here — much  work." 

"Then  let  me  go.  I  would  see  at  least  a  few  of 
these  native  Christians  well  beaten." 

"And  so  find  redress  for  the  tumble  they  gave 
you  in  the  water?"  The  dervish  did  not  answer 
and  the  servant  continued.  "The  motive,  no  doubt, 
is  commendable,  but  what  if  you  don't  come  back?" 
The  man  was  obviously  considering  the  possibly 
brief  duration  of  his  own  surreptitious  increase  in 
wage. 

"Why  should  I  not  come  back?  Haven't  I  plenty 
to  eat  here?  Give  me  the  key  of  the  outer  gate." 
He  did  not  attempt  to  disguise  his  eagerness  for  he 
knew  the  other  would  construe  it  in  his  own  fashion. 

The  servant  pondered.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well  to 
let  this  excellent  assistant  have  a  little  leeway.  His 
one  weakness  seemed  to  be  a  desire  to  beat,  or  to 
see  others  beat  Christians;  but  as  this  was  a  virtue, 
as  long  as  he  gratified  the  propensity  at  night,  out 
of  working  hours,  it  might  be  unreasonable  to  seek 
to  curb  it.  So — "Well,  you  may  go,"  said  the 
man.  "You  needn't  take  the  key,  though.  I'll  let 
;  ou  in  when  you  return." 

The  dervish  murmured  an  acknowledgment  and 


158      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

moved  swiftly  toward  the  gate.  To  get  out  and  go 
to  her,  at  any  cost — ^that,  now,  was  what  he  must 
do.  He  had  learned  all  that  was  necessary  at 
Amad's.  He  could  not  see  what  he  could  accom- 
plish by  remaining  here  longer,  though  how  to  get 
to  her?  He  could  not  plan;  he  would  have  to  de- 
pend on  doing  what  was  best  when  the  emergency 
arose.  But,  primarily,  he  must  leave  tliat  garden. 
Perhaps  this  agitation  against  the  Christians  might 
divert  those  who  were  seeking  for  him.  Or 
that  turbulence  might  prove  but  an  addi- 
tional note  of  hazard.  He  didn't  know  how  this 
might  be.    The  future  would  tell. 

"Are  you  going  to  open  ?" 

The  servant  had  a  key  in  his  hand,  but  he  took  an 
exasperatingly  long  time  in  fitting  it  in  the  ancient 
lock. 

"Patience!  Now  I  have  it,"  replied  the  man  and 
was  about  to  turn  the  key  and  swing  open  the  gate, 
when  from  the  rear  of  the  house,  a  maid  servant, 
with  covered  face  stepped  rapidly  toward  them. 

"The  master  wishes  to  see  the  new  helper,"  she 
announced,  looking  at  the  dervish. 


CHAPTER  XII 

.  :,*-■«■ 

A   VERY   HOLY   MAN  V        ' 

"IV  yTE?"  For  an  instant  the  young  man  looked 
X  ▼  JL  at  the  gate  as  if  tempted  to  essay  a  forcible 
egress,  but  there  were  bolts  as  well  as  locks  to  be 
considered,     "Why  does  he  wish  to  see  me?" 

"That  is  not  for  me  to  say,"  she  returned  sharply. 
"Go  at  once." 

"And  perhaps  be  discharged?"  The  dervish  as- 
sumed a  lugubrious  tone. 

"As  to  that,"  said  the  woman  who  had  been  re- 
garding him  closely,  "you  need  not  fear.  You  seem 
a  likely  enough  fellow." 

"Nevertheless" — ^he  was  fighting  for  time, 
though  vainly,  no  doubt — "I  may  not  please  him." 
The  words  had  a  senseless  sound,  but  what  could  he 
say?  He  must  play  the  part  of  half- fool.  The  man 
servant  might  well  esteem  him  that,  in  view  of  his 
unbusinesslike  proclivities.     The  dervish  hoped  so. 


i6o      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

He  must  rely  on  the  man  to  come  to  his  rescue 
now  for  certainly  he  had  no  desire  for  an  interview 
with  Amad  at  that  moment.  "See  here,"  to  the 
man  servant,  "tell  the  most  gracious  master  I've 
gone  on  an  errand,  to  get  oats  for  Star  of  the 
Desert.  My  head  becomes  confused  sometimes  in 
the  presence  of  my  superiors,  and  when  I  am  ques- 
tioned about  wages?"  he  ended  significantly. 

"Eh  ?"  said  the  man  servant,  starting  in  the  least. 
"Well,  perhaps  I  could  go  and  say — " 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  interrupted  the 
maid  servant  curtly.  "As  for  you,  my  fine  fellow," 
to  the  young  man,  "fie  on  such  modesty !  You  look 
as  if  you  could  hold  your  head  up.  Besides,"  re- 
assuringly, "the  master  is  feeling  very  amiable.  He 
has  even  given  us  little  gifts,  sweetmeats  to  cele- 
brate with.  Perhaps  he  may  have  a  present  for 
you." 

"Why,"  asked  the  dervish,  "is  he  so  amiable?" 

"A  man  usually  is,  under  the  circumstances."  She 
was  regarding  him  more  favorably.  Truly  this  new 
servant  was  a  handsome  fellow,  not  very  bright- 
witted,  but  a  woman  can  forgive  that — sometimes, 
indeed,  it  is  a  merit  in  a  man. 


A  VERY   HOLY   MAN  i6i 

"What  circumstances  ?"  the  other  asked  as  uncon- 
cernedly as  he  could. 

She  toyed  with  her  veil,  lifting  it  a  little  as  if  in- 
advertently. "It  is  the  night  before  his  wedding. 
He  is  to  be  married  to-morrow  morning." 

"To-morrow?"  The  dervish  stood  like  a  statue. 
The  miscreants  had  certainly  expedited  matters. 
Amad  meant  to  act  quickly,  to  take  no  chances  by 
delay.  "To-morrow !"  the  dervish  repeated.  What- 
ever emotion  this  information  may  have  caused  him, 
they  could  read  no  sign  of  it  on  his  face. 

"Yes,  it  is  very  romantic,"  went  on  the  woman 
servant.  "You,  of  course,  being  a  stranger,  know 
nothing  of  the  circumstances.  He  was  married  to 
her  before  and  divorced  her.  Then  she  married 
another  and  that  other  divorced  her,  too.  So  now 
she  is  free."  The  dervish  had  fathomed  their 
knavish  plan  correctly — of  course!  "But  come!  Do 
you  not,  also,  wish  him  good  fortune  ?" 

"I?" 

"Yes;  all  the  others  have,  or  will,  bend  before 
him  and  implore  Allah's  blessing  on  his  head." 

"It  might  not  be  so  acceptable  from  me,  not  a 
house-servant,    only   a    stableman,"   muttered   the 


i62      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

dervish.  She  answered  him  more  sharply,  hov^ever, 
and  he  followed  her.  He  had  to,  for  she  would 
not  be  put  off. 

What  could  Amad  want  with  him?  Flowers, 
perhaps,  for  the  morrow,  from  the  garden?  It 
would  be  the  dervish's  business  to  cut  them,  to  strew 
the  house  with  them,  to  transform  it  into  a  veritable 
bower,  in  keeping  with  the  joyous  occasion.  He 
breathed  hard  a  moment.  But  perhaps  Amad  had 
sent  for  him  for  another  reason.  The  rich  diamond 
merchant  might  have  become  suspicious  of  his  new 
assistant  gardener.  Amad  had  hunted  the  city  over 
for  him  in  vain.  Some  inkling  of  how  the  dervish 
had  been  cast  up  by  the  waters  on  the  stone  steps 
leading  from  Amad's  garden  to  the  canal,  might 
have  fallen  from  the  man  servant's  lips  during  the 
day.  He  had  been  with  his  master  on  his  ride  and 
the  two  might  have  talked,  or  the  master  might  have 
questioned  the  man  more  closely. 

As  they  walked  toward  the  house,  the  woman 
glanced  once  or  twice  at  this  handsome  new  servant 
of  Amad's.  She  stepped  rather  close  to  him  as 
they  traversed  the  dim  passageway  but  he  appeared 
quite  unmindful  of  a  tentative  friendliness  in  her 


A   VERY   HOLY   MAN  163 

manner.  Even  when  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  she 
suffered  her  veil  to  be  swept  aside  to  reveal  her  ripe 
lips,  he  showed  no  interest.  They  might  have  been 
the  crimson  painted  lips  of  a  china  doll  for  any 
temptation  they  had  for  him,  and — "Truly  a  stupid 
fellow!"  she  murmured.  Then  pointing,  "There  is 
the  door,"  she  observed.  As  if  the  dervish  did  not 
know!  He  had  been  glad  enough  to  pass  out  of  it 
safely  once  before  that  day.  Would  he  be  as  for- 
tunate on  this  occasion? 

"Is  he  alone?"  the  dervish  asked  in  a  low  voice. 
His  eyes  had  begun  suddenly  to  glitter. 

"I  don't  know.  Sadi,  the  saddler,  was  with  him. 
1  was  to  admit  you  when  he  left." 

The  saddler  possibly  still  there!  And  Amad  had 
sent  for  the  dervish!  Ominous  circumstance,  or 
coincidence.  But  very  little  seemed  to  matter  now. 
The  dervish  felt  about  as  puissant  as  a  babe.  Amad 
had  worsted  him.  He  was  going  to  be  married  on 
the  morrow — this  fact  kept  repeating  itself  in  the 
dervish's  brain.     It  stood  out  above  all  else. 

"Wait!"  said  the  woman,  unmindful  of  the 
other's  preoccupation.  "I  will  see  if  you  may  enter 
now."    And  she  went  forward.     He  followed.     A 


i64      ALADDIN   FROM    BROADWAY 

sound  of  low  voices  was  heard.  "We  shall  have  to 
stay  here  a  moment  or  two,"  she  went  on  in  subdued 
tones.  "The  master  bade  me  fetch  you  when  the 
other  three  left.  Sadi,  the  saddler,  asked  permission 
to  speak  with  him  alone,  and  he  granted  it  But 
I  didn't  think  he  would  let  him  take  up  so  much  of 
his  time,  for  the  master  isn't  over-fond  of  poor 
relatives.  What  can  he  have  to  say  that  is  so  inter- 
esting?" 

"Allah  knows,"  muttered  the  dervish,  though  he, 
too,  had  an  idea,  himself. 

The  woman  looked  at  him  more  coquettishly. 
Why  not?  Repression  makes  the  Mohammedan 
woman  bold.  Treated  as  a  prisoner,  with  suspicion, 
her  wings  are  too  often  ready  when  opportunity  is 
kind.  And  this  fellow's  eyes,  when  she  met  them, 
seemed  now  fairly  to  burn.  What  hidden  fires !  She 
did  not  realize  that  flame  was  essentially  and  unal- 
terably non-amatory — that  it  was  disposed  more  to 
blast  than  to  caress. 

"What  nice  eyes  you  have !"  she  murmured.  Then 
with  a  low  laugh:  "My  eye!"  It  was  a  term  of 
Arab  endearment.  It  meant:  "Light  of  my  eye," 
or  "One  favored  (for  the  moment)  by  my  eye." 


A   VERY    HOLY   MAN  165 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  go  down  again,"  suggested 
the  dervish.  He  had  not  even  noticed  her  crude 
advances. 

But  she  motioned  the  dervish  to  remain.  "What 
can  keep  the  master  so  long?  I  heard  him  say  he 
would  give  the  saddler  but  a  minute — " 

"It  must  be  important,"  again  muttered  the  der- 
vish. 

She  regarded  him  with  a  knowing  smile.  "Shall 
we  listen  ?"  her  look  said.  A  servant's  prerogative ! 
Or,  at  least,  a  house-servant's.    They  stole  nearer. 

"Why  did  you  not  speak  of  this  sooner  ?"  Amad's 
tense  voice,  within,  was  heard  to  say. 

"I  wished  to  make  sure,"  Sadi  answered. 

"And  now  you  are  sure?"    Incisively. 

"Yes."    There  was  triumph  in  the  saddler's  voice. 

"Something  he  left  behind  him,  when  he  went 
SD  hurriedly  last  night,  makes  me  so.  Something 
which  dropped  from  the  clothes  he  changed  and 
which  was  thrust  with  them  under  the  settee  in  the 
suffehr 

"You  have  it?"     Quickly. 

Sadi's  reply  was  inaudible.  They  spoke  in  lower 
tones  now — excitedly.    Their  accents  were  staccato. 


1 66      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

denoting  keen  interest,  but  what  they  said  was  still 
unintelligible  to  the  dervish.  Were  they  examining 
that  "something"  that  had  once  been  all  in  all 
to  him?  Yet  he  had  not  even  noticed  its  loss.  His 
mind  must  have  been  strongly  engrossed  otherwise. 
Even  now  he  felt  an  odd  apathy  that  they  should 
have  it — though  it  represented  a  fortune,  his  all,  and 
he  had  left  it  behind  him,  in  her  house.  The  fact 
didn't  seem  to  matter  so  much,  somehow.  It  seemed 
so  outweighed  by  more  cogent  extraneous  circum- 
stances. For  some  time  only  meaningless  exclama- 
tions and  sounds  came  from  within.  The  evil 
wizened  old  face  and  the  fanatical  younger  one  were 
in  all  likelihood  bowed  together  over  the  "some- 
thing." 

*T  remember  a  legend  of  an  Englishman — "  they 
heard  Amad  say  in  a  rasping  voice,  but  his  other 
words  were  lost. 

"What  are  they  talking  about?"  murmured  the 
woman  at  the  dervish's  side. 

He  shrugged.  He  felt  no  great  concern  over 
Sadi's  "discovery."  A  few  days  ago  it  would  have 
meant  everything  to  him,  but  now — an  extra  hazard 
or  two — when  his  life  was  already  forfeited!    The 


A  VERY  HOLY   MAN  167 

morrow — ^that's  what  he  was  thinking  of — the  ir- 
revocable morrow!  The  bride  might  be  wringing 
her  hands,  but  what  could  she  do?  The  girl's 
words  came  back  to  him  with  poignant  significance. 
There  are  worse  things  than  death — so  that  Sadi's 
words,  now  heard,  had  almost  a  frivolous,  unmean- 
ing sound. 

"I  ran  across  him  accidentally  one  day  after  dusk, 
in  our  holy  city  of  Mecca.  He  had  his  arm  in  a  hole 
in  one  of  the  enclosure  walls  of  the  mosque.  He  had 
removed  a  few  of  the  bricks.  When  he  saw  I  had 
discovered  him,  he  made  some  excuse  about  a 
miracle-hole,  and  of  drawing  virtue  from  the  tomb 
of  a  relative  of  the  prophet  on  the  other  side,  but  I 
learned  there  was  no  tomb  near.  Then  I  remem- 
bered the  legend  or  story  you  speak  of — " 

Sadi's  satisfaction  seemed  painfully  irrelevant  to, 
at  least,  one  of  the  listeners.  It  was  also  pitifully 
puerile.  No  doubt  the  saddler  was  mentally  compute 
ing  a  reward  for  services.  What  are  rich  relatives 
for,  except  to  bestow  largess?  And  what  better 
time  to  impress  a  sense  of  obligation  upon  this  one 
than  on  the  eve  of  his  marriage  ?  Besides,  it  is  fine 
to  be  rewarded  for  having  accomplished  something 


i68      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY; 

most  gratifying  unto  yourself — that  you  have  long 
striven  to  attain.  It  is  like  killing  two  birds  with 
one  stone.  Sadi  served  his  own  fanatical  desires  at 
the  same  time  he  served  Amad.  He,  no  doubt, 
pressed  hard  now  his  own  importance  on  the  latter. 
If  the  rich  diamond  merchant  had  only  seen  fit  to 
have  employed  him  (the  saddler)  in  a  certain  delicate 
mission,  instead  of  that  blundering  dyer,  what  a  deal 
of  fuss  and  bother  would  have  been  avoided ! 

"I  suspected  at  Light  of  Life's."  The  saddler 
spoke  complacently.  "Had  I  been  consulted — but 
then,  at  that  late  moment,  what  could  I,  without 
authority,  do?  Besides,  one  should  not  speak  upon 
mere  suspicion,  however  strong.  What  if  I  had 
been  in  error  ?  The  law  against  slanderers  is  severe. 
Sometimes  they  are  beaten  and  there  are  both  pris- 
ons and  fines  for  them,  as  a  penalty.  I  who  am  a 
poor  man  dared  not  risk — " 

"You  have  done  well,"  interrupted  the  diamond 
merchant,  as  if  impatient  of  further  explanation. 
"At  least,  you  are  not  a  fool,  like  many  others.  And 
no  doubt  you  are  right.  This  proof  is  conclusive. 
To  think  of  the  insult  to  our  sacred  religion!"  Ex- 
plosively.   "But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there  now," 


A  VERY   HOLY   MAN  169 

he  went  on  more  calmly.  "That  idiot  of  a  dyer  tells 
me  you  do  not  think  the  fellow  is  dead  ?" 

"What  fellow  ?  Who  can  they  be  talking  about  ?" 
breathed  the  woman  servant  in  the  dervish's  ear. 
She  did  not  ask  it  as  a  question — how  could  the 
young  man,  a  newcomer  in  that  household,  en- 
lighten her?  She  was  but  voicing  her  own  per- 
plexities. 

The  dervish  did  not  answer.  Sadi's  reply  to  the 
diamond  merchant  was  the  same  as  he  had  made  to 
the  dyer  and  the  others,  only  he  gave  now  more  em- 
phatically his  reasons  for  his  belief. 

"I  do  not  agree  with  you  in  this,  for  obvious  rea- 
sons." Amad  snapped  back.  "Think  of  the  reward 
I  offered  for  any  information  concerning  him !  And 
not  one  trace  of  him,  living,  has  been  found." 

"Nor  dead,  either,"  said  Sadi  significantly.  "The 
water  is  swift,  but  he  is  strong.  On  the  march,  men 
fell  and  camels,  too,  and  the  beggarly  pilgrims 
stripped  the  flesh  from  the  bones  of  the  beasts.  But 
he  always  had  strength  to  go  on." 

"Tut!  What  an  obstinate  fellow  you  are!"  cried 
Amad  angrily.  "However,  to  entertain  the  impos- 
sible as  a  probability — " 


•  I70      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

He  murmured  hastily  some  instructions.  What 
they  were  could  not  be  heard.  "A  fit  time,  eh,  if 
your  foolish  surmise  should  prove  true?"  Amad 
chuckled  grimly.  "He  had  better  be  dead  than  to 
have  the  people  know  all  this,  now — when  they  are 
so  aroused.  It  will  be  your  business  to  acquaint 
them  with  the  facts.  Let  it  once  be  known  this 
fellow  has  kissed  the  sacred  black  stone — " 

"And  offered  a  goat  for  holy  sacrifice  at 
Mecca — " 

"He  dared  do  even  that  ?"  Amad  almost  shouted. 
A  moment  he  was  very  vehement,  religious  indig- 
nation superseding  tender  anticipations.  The  lover 
was  replaced  by  the  bigot. 

Outside  the  door  the  dervish  listened  with  ap- 
parent indifference.  To  the  woman  servant  he  was 
a  stoic,  indeed ;  a  man  without  emotion  or  curiosity. 
Her  own  face  was  eloquently  expressive  of  bewil- 
derment. She  couldn't  make  head  or  tail  out  of  all 
'  this  talk.  She  had  caught  "Death  to  the  Chris- 
tians!" "Meddlers!  Interferers !"  And  then  she 
heard  Amad  in  peremptory  tones  tell  Sadi  to  go, 
whereupon  she  herself  retreated  quickly. 

The  interview  was  at  an  end  and  she  did  not  wish 


A  VERY   HOLY   MAN  171 

to  be  detected  eavesdropping.  A  moment  later  Sadi 
appeared  at  the  threshold. 

"You  had  better  go  to  the  master  now."  The 
woman  servant  again  turned  to  the  dervish.  Sadi 
had  left  the  house.  He  had  noticed  the  woman  and 
also  her  companion  at  the  farther  end  of  the  dark 
hall,  but  they  appeared  only  as  shadows  to  him,  for 
Amad  wasted  no  candles  or  lanterns  to  light  the 
way,  when  his  humbler  friends  and  relations  de- 
parted from  his  august  presence.  Perhaps  it  af- 
forded him  malicious  amusement  to  hear  them 
stumble  a  bit.  He  might  even  have  been  capable  of 
smiling,  if  one  barked  a  shin  on  a  kursi,  or  other 
substantial  article  of  furniture.  So  Sadi's  footsteps 
had  receded  in  comparative  and  unostentatious 
gloom,  and  the  click  of  the  bolt  of  the  dubbeh,  as 
the  pins  of  wood  dropped  into  place,  had  announced 
the  closing  and  locking  of  the  street  door  after  him. 

"I  am  ready."  The  dervish  appeared,  at  last, 
reconciled  to  the  inevitable.  He  started  once  more 
forward,  when — 

"Remember  your  manners,"  spoke  his  mentor 
sharply,  "and  what  will  be  expected  of  you."  She 
was  fast  losing  any  concern  she  may  have  had  for 


172      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

the  fellow.  Never  was  a  mere  stableman  more 
oblivious  to  his  own  interests.  "As  you  enter  pos- 
ture and  pray  Allah  to  bestow  upon  him  the  delights 
of  paradise." 

"Must  I  say  that?"  There  was  again  that  odd 
glimmer  in  the  dervish's  eyes. 

"Of  course.     Have  you  any  objection?" 

"Oh,  no.  It  will  give  me  much  pleasure — much !" 
Then  as  if  to  charge  his  memory,  "The  delights  of 
paradise,"  he  murmured  queerly.  She  eyed  him 
disdainfully.  A  woman  of  the  East  does  not  like  to 
have  her  little  attempts  at  flirtation  pass  completely 
unmarked. 

"Go,  fool!"  she  said,  and  walked  away  herself. 
She  wasn't  enough  interested  now  even  to  remain 
near  for  further  eavesdropping.  Yet  had  she  lin- 
gered, she  would  have  been  rewarded  for  her  pains. 
It  was  well  for  the  dervish,  though,  that  she  didn't. 
He  watched  her  vanish  before  he  stepped  across  the 
threshold  into  the  mandarah. 

Amad  looked  up  quickly  at  his  entrance.  The 
oil  lamps  of  the  apartment  gave  a  restful  but  not 
a  vividly  illumining  light.  The  dervish  noted  the 
circumstance.  Did  Amad  know  him,  and,  if  so, 
would  he  recognize  him  in  sober  serving  attire? 


A  VERY   HOLY   MAN  173 

A  sharp  voice  bade  the  dervish  draw  nearer  and, 
posturing  low,  he  did  so.  In  fact,  he  postured  so 
low,  the  diamond  merchant  could  see  little,  or  noth- 
ing, of  his  face.  "Delights  of  paradise!  Delights 
of  paradise!"  he  murmured  hoarsely.  "Felicity! 
Allah  grant  felicity!  I  am  the  new  servant,  may  it 
please  the  illustrious  master." 

The  words  seemed  to  content  Amad ;  he  had  ap- 
parently, with  Sadi's  going,  set  aside  all  tumultuous 
thoughts.  Upon  a  tray  before  him  were  many 
jewels  of  wondrous  size  and  beauty,  and  they  now 
occupied  his  attention  agreeably.  His  keen  eyes 
were  admiring  them  for  their  beauty  and  appraising 
them  for  their  value  as  he  picked  up  a  handful  and 
let  them  run  through  his  fingers.  Had  he  been 
making  a  selection  for  his  bride?  How  her  youth 
and  loveliness  would  set  off  those  beautiful  emeralds 
and  diamonds!  He  would  lavish  gems  upon  her, 
the  better  to  enjoy  them,  and  as  she  would  belong 
to  him  he  would  be  none  the  poorer.  Sometimes 
he  would  bedeck  her  with  pearls.  It  would  depend 
upon  his  mood.  His  wicked  eyes  were  full  of  the 
thought.   The  newcomer  dared  not  meet  them. 

"Felicity !"  he  murmured,  still  posturing  low,  but 
drawing  nearer. 


174      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

"I  hear  you."  Approval  appeared  on  Amad's  face. 
Here  was  a  solicitous  servant,  and  a  most  respectful 
one,  judging  by  the  way  he  could  bend  his  broad 
back.  "I  sent  for  you  to  give  you  instructions  for 
the  morrow.    You — " 

"May  Allah  shower  his  blessings,"  interrupted 
the  dervish  more  fervently,  but  still  nearer  and  bend- 
ing ever  lower.     "Garlands  of  joy — ^wreaths  of — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Amad  impatiently.  There  was 
such  a  thing  as  being  over-congratulated.  Still  he 
strove  to  be  complaisant,  in  keeping  with  the  happy 
spirit  of  the  occasion. 

"I  will  even  deliver  verses  and  special  prayers," 
mumbled  this  new  and  most  sedulous  servitor. 
"Verses  and  chapters,  without  number — " 

"I  know  that  prayer  is  good,"  said  Amad  sharp- 
ly, "and  that  it  is  good  for  servants  to  be  pious  in 
their  masters'  behalf,  but  there  are,  also,  many 
practical  matters  to  be  attended  to,  and  of  these  I 
will  speak.    I  desire  you  to  see  that  many  flowers — " 

It  was  to  provide  flowers,  then,  that  he  had  been 
summoned  thither.  Flowers  for  Amad's  wedding- 
day!  The  dervish  was  now  close  to  the  heavy  in- 
laid table  behind  which  the  merchant  was  seated. 


A   VERY   HOLY   MAN  175 

"Look  up,"  commanded  Amad  imperiously, 
"and  listen." 

The  dervish  did  look  up,  but  he,  also,  did  more 
than  that.  He  reached  out  and  grasped  the  other, 
stifling  with  an  iron  grip  the  yell  about  to  issue 
from  the  throat  of  the  startled  and  amazed  diamond 
merchant. 

"Keep  quiet,  or — "  There  were  no  felicitations 
in  his  tones  now.  The  sharp  point  of  a  dagger 
pricked  Amad's  skin  and  the  latter's  eyes  blazed 
with  sudden  recognition.  Amad  did  know,  then, 
who  he  was. 

"You !"  he  managed  to  murmur,  murderous  rage 
and  hate  in  his  gaze.    "What — do  you  want?" 

"That,"  said  the  young  man,  "you  will  soon 
learn." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MENACING    MOMENTS 

HALF  an  hour  later  the  dervish,  at  least  out- 
wardly calm  and  tranquil,  returned  to  the 
stable.  The  lean  Damascus  dog  gave  a  low  growl 
as  he  entered  and  regarded  him  with  red  suspicious 
eyes  as  if  he  felt  all  was  not  quite  well,  but  the  man, 
his  employer  by  proxy,  only  glanced  at  the  dervish 
inquiringly.  "It  was  about  the  flowers,"  said  the 
latter  carelessly. 

"You  had  a  pleasant  interview?" 

"Very." 

"And  left  him  in  an  amiable  mood?" 

"Hum?  He  was  transported  with  joy."  As  he 
spoke  the  dervish  glanced  quickly  over  his  shoulder 
toward  the  house.  All  was  still  there — for  the 
moment.    But  any  instant  there  might  come — 

"Perhaps  I,  too,  had  better  go  and  congratulate 
the  master,"  said  the  servant  suddenly. 

"I  wouldn't."  Hastily.  **When  he  dismissed  me 
176 


MENACING   MOMENTS  177 

he  remarked  he  had  important  papers  to  look  over." 

"Did  you  say  anything  about  your  wages?" 
asked  the  man  suspiciously. 

"On  my  word,  no." 

"Did  he  give  you  anything?"   Jealously. 

"Only  this."  Showing  a  small  box.  "Sheereh 
(Hashish)." 

" Sheer ehr  Delighted. 

"Of  the  best  quality.  Try  some."  The  dervish 
tried  to  speak  unconcernedly,  glancing  again  as  if 
casually  toward  the  house. 

"Later.     I  have  work  to  do  now." 

"Defer  it."  A  smiling  invitation  succeeded  a  sud- 
den hard  compression  of  the  dervish's  Hps. 

But  the  other  declined,  turning  toward  the  stall 
of  Star  of  the  Desert.  An  instant  the  dervish  looked 
down,  then  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  changed  in  the 
least,  and  with  tread  lithe  as  a  panther,  he  stepped 
after  the  stableman,  when  suddenly  the  dog  again 
growled.  The  man  looked  around.  "Eh  ?"  he  said. 
The  lean  creature  was  half  standing,  his  hair 
bristling,  his  red  eyes  on  the  dervish.  The  latter, 
however,  now  stood  with  bent  shoulders,  his  head 
inclined  over  the  box,  the  contents  of  which  he  ap- 


178      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

peared  to  be  inhaling.  His  attitude  was  both  in- 
nocent and  absorbed. 

"U-um!"  he  murmured  appreciatively. 

"Is  it  so  good?" 

"Catch."  Tossing  the  box  to  the  other.  The 
fellow  opened  it  and  inhaled.  Again  the  dervish 
darted  a  look  toward  the  house.     The  dog  whined. 

"Shut  up,"  said  the  stableman  to  the  dog.  "Don't 
know  what's  the  matter  with  him.  He's  been  uneasy 
like  that  for  some  time." 

"How'd  you  like  it?"  The  dervish  changed  the 
subject  quickly,  indicating  the  box. 

"Nor  porter's  bast,  that !"  grunted  the  man  with 
approval.  A  moment  he  fingered  the  box,  as  if 
tempted,  while  the  dervish  watched  him  steadily, 
but  he  ended  by  extending  the  little  receptacle  once 
more  to  the  dervish. 

The  latter  took  it,  concealing  his  disappointment. 
"Got  a  water-pipe?"  he  said,  as  the  stableman 
started  to  groom  the  horse. 

"Yes,  over  in  the  corner  there." 

The  dervish  walked  to  the  place  indicated  and 
brought  forth  a  smoking  outfit.  He  filled  the  bowl 
of  the  water-pipe,  and  applied  a  coal  from  the  bra- 


Stifling  with  an  iron  grip  the  yell  about  to  issue  from 
the  throat  of  the  diamond  merchant" 


MENACING  MOMENTS  179 

zier.  He  didn't  want  to  smoke;  he  wasn't  inured 
to  this  insidious  oriental  pastime,  but  he  felt  he  had 
no  choice,  so  he  puffed  as  superficially  as  possible, 
blowing  the  smoke  in  the  direction  of  his  busy  com- 
panion. The  latter  continued  at  his  task  but  grad- 
ually his  motions  became  more  slothful  and  he 
sniffed.  Then,  for  a  few  moments  his  hand  sus- 
pended operations  on  the  shining  flank  of  the  Star. 
Would  he  never  make  up  his  mind  to  desist  from 
work  and  enjoy  himself?  The  dervish  waited,  his 
features  masked  with  indifference,  though  feeling 
the  while  like  a  man  on  the  verge  of  a  precipice. 
He  knew  the  effect  of  the  smoke  on  users  of  the 
drug  and  this  man,  he  was  sure,  by  his  complexion 
and  other  signs,  had  the  habit.  The  stableman  at 
length  turned  around. 

"Don't  smoke  It  all,"  he  said  jestingly. 

"There's  one  way  of  obviating  that,"  answered 
the  dervish  quickly,  and  held  toward  him  the  silver 
and  amber  mouthpiece.  The  stableman  took  it  and 
breathed  in.  His  face  expressed  no  disappointment. 
"By  Allah!  here's  aroma!"  he  muttered. 

"Go  on,"  urged  the  dervish  as  the  other  would 
have  desisted. 


i8o      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

But  the  stableman  gazed  indecisively  toward  the 
Star.    "I'd  better  finish  my  work  first." 

"When  the  master  told  us  to  enjoy  ourselves?" 

"Did  he  say  that?" 

"Of  course." 

"It  is  not  like  him." 

"The  occasion  is  most  unusual." 

"True;  the  night  before  his  wedding!"  The  fel- 
low yet  seemed  to  vibrate,  however,  between  duty 
and  pleasure,  and  inwardly  the  dervish  anathema- 
tized him.  Every  instant  was  precious;  every  frac- 
tion of  a  second  meant  so  much  to  him.  Well,  if 
he  wouldn't  smoke  ? —  The  dervish  got  up  and  once 
more  moved  toward  the  stableman,  when  again  the 
dog  made  a  sound.  The  stableman  turned  to  give 
him  a  kick,  and  in  doing  so,  swung  some  little  dis- 
tance from  the  dervish  and  facing  him.  "Doesn't  act 
as  if  he  liked  you,"  grunted  the  man. 

"Yes,  I've  noticed  that,"  returned  the  other  with 
a  smile  somewhat  strained. 

The  stableman  walked  toward  the  door  of  the 
stable.     "Wait,"  he  said. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  the  house  for  another  pipe.    I've  concluded 


MENACING   MOMENTS  i8i 

to  take  your  advice.  The  work  can  wait  on  such  a 
night." 

"But  the  household  is  asleep.  Why  should  you 
disturb  them  ?" 

"The  women  servants  are  always  willing  to  wait 
on  a  man.  They  esteem  it  is  a  privilege.  At  least,'* 
grinning,  "one  of  them  will." 

"Nevertheless,  you  are  but  putting  yourself  to 
unnecessary  trouble."  As  he  spoke,  the  dervish 
extended  a  detaining  hand  and  touched  the  other's 
sleeve.  It  was  a  hazardous  expedient,  with  that 
watchful  sentinel  of  a  dog  just  behind  him,  but  the 
dervish  could  not  let  this  fellow  go  to  the  house. 
It  was  the  last  thing  he  wished  him  to  do.  "One  pipe 
is  surely  enough  for  both,"  he  went  on  with  a  sem- 
blance of  good  fellowship.  "So  we  can  smoke  in 
more  friendly  fashion.  You  needn't  be  afraid  of 
my  getting  more  than  my  share,  for  when  it  comes 
to  smoking,  I've  a  weak  head." 

"Well,  I've  a  strong  one,"  boasted  the  other,  and 
sat  down.  "I  learned  the  virtues  of  this  stuff  when 
a  sakka  (seller  of  water)." 

The  stableman  puffed  at  last,  drawing  the  smoke 
deep  down,  while  the  dervish  selected  a  position 


1 82      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

where  he  could  see  the  house  through  the  stable 
window,  over  the  other's  shoulder.  He  divided  his 
attention  between  the  man  and  the  house.  A  flicker 
of  light  passing  before  one  of  the  dark  windows  at 
the  back  of  the  dwelling  was  not  calculated  to  re- 
assure the  young  man.  He  breathed  heavily.  Some 
servant  going  to  bed?  No — coming  down.  He 
listened  closer  but  for  the  moment  heard  nothing 
alarming.  The  great  scrawny  dog,  too,  seemed  all 
attention,  sitting  like  a  guardian  gargoyle  on  his 
haunches  and  focusing  his  uncannily  bright  eyes  on 
the  dervish.  His  owner  meanwhile  appeared  con- 
tented enough,  muttering  new  encomiums  on  the 
mixture  in  the  bowl  of  the  pipe. 

"Though  I'm  surprised  the  master  should  have 
given  you  such,"  he  added  wonderingly.  "Surely 
it  is  the  kind  he  reserves  only  for  his  guests?" 

"As  I  told  you  the  master  is  feeling  most  amiable. 
He  is  going  to  give  presents  to  us  all  on  the  mor- 
row." 

"Is  he,  indeed?" 

"He  especially  mentioned  you." 

"He  did?"     Delighted. 

"An  *old  and  valued  servant',  he  called  you." 


MENACING   MOMENTS  183 

"Not  so  very  old  in  service  here,"  put  in  the 
other.    "I  haven't  been  with  him  but — " 

"I  beheve  he  said  Valued',  not  'old',  come  to 
think  of  it." 

"You  seem  a  little  mixed  on  what  he  did  say," 
observed  the  stableman  suspiciously. 

"Not  at  all.      I—" 

"If  I  thought  he  didn't  really  give  you  this,  but 
that  you—" 

"Took  it?  Now  Allah  forbid—  You  forget  I 
came  well  recommended  for  honesty,  that  it  was 
you,  yourself  who — "   Laughing. 

"Well,  well !"  grumbled  the  stableman.  After  all, 
what  did  it  matter?  In  every  Mohammedan  house- 
hold peculation  is  practised  by  the  servants  and  if 
this  fellow  stole  nothing  more  valuable  than 
hashish  which  he  generously  shared  with — ?  A 
door  leading  from  the  house  into  the  garden  at  that 
moment  suddenly  slammed.  The  dervish  straight- 
ened but  the  stableman  did  not  seem  to  notice;  no 
doubt  he  thought  some  one  was  locking  up;  he 
now  reminded  the  dervish  it  was  his  turn. 

"Not  yet,"  said  the  latter  protestingly.  His  man- 
ner was  airy,  though  between  words  he  listened  in- 


i84      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

tently  for  any  further  sounds  from  the  house.  "As 
I  told  you,  I  have  a  weak  head,  and — " 

But  the  stableman  insisted.  "I'll  have  no  ihnees 
(little  boys)  in  my  employ,"  he  observed  jocosely — ' 
perhaps  with  a  touch  of  malice,  too.  The  drug  af- 
fects people  differently,  and  in  the  stableman's  eye, 
behind  that  look  of  pleasure  might  be  detected  a 
glint  of  truculence.  At  another  time  possible 
belligerency  on  the  fellow's  part  would  have  only 
amused  the  dervish,  but  now,  with  that  cursed  de- 
scendant of  street  dogs  eying  him  with  the  con- 
centrated sharpness  bred  by  generations  of  thiev- 
ing and  hustling  under  difficulties,  the  dervish 
felt  as  if  he  were  being  enmeshed  in  his  own  net. 
That  dog,  under  certain  circumstances,  would 
arouse  the  household,  if  the  household  did  not  soon 
arouse  itself. 

As  he  smoked,  the  dervish  became  aware  he  had 
nerves  in  his  finger-tips.  Bees,  too,  began  to  buzz 
in  his  head.  Suddenly  he  stopped  smoking.  Foot- 
steps coming  from  the  house  could  be  heard  on  the 
gravel  walk. 

"Who  can  that  be?"    The  dervish  got  up. 


MENACING   MOMENTS  185 

"Odd  any  one  should  come  out  here  at  this  time," 
said  the  stableman  expectantly. 

Fingers  now  fumbled  at  the  latch  of  the  barn 
door,  which,  a  moment  later,  swung  back,  revealing 
the  half -veiled  features  of  the  woman  servant  who 
had  shown  the  dervish  into  the  presence  of  the  dia- 
mond merchant. 

"I  came  to  see  if  the  master  had  gone  forth  on 
the  Star,"  she  observed,  looking  toward  the  stall. 

"Why  do  you  come  to  see  that?"  asked  the  stable- 
man. 

"Because  an  orderly  from  the  governor's  staff 
has  been  sent  to  consult  with  him.  About  this  up- 
rising against  the  Christians,  no  doubt.  The  master 
is  a  member  of  the  advisory  cabinet,  you  know." 

"He  is  not,  then,  in  the  mandarah?"  said  the 
stableman. 

"Apparently  not.  I  knocked,  and  there  was  no 
reply."  Her  eyes,  as  she  spoke,  turned  to  the  der- 
vish. Did  they  convey  a  question?  Conscience 
might  have  interpreted  that  look  almost  as  a  chal- 
lenge. He  had  been  last  with  the  diamond  mer- 
chant. 


i86      ALADDIN    FROM   BROADWAY 

The  dervish  smiled.  It  was  a  very  charming 
smile.  No  one  would  have  seen  anything  strained 
or  unnatural  about  it.  "I  believe  the  master  did 
say  something  about  going  out,"  he  observed,  as  if 
not  quite  sure  of  the  point. 

"On  foot?"  Incredulously.  She  stared  at  him. 
Then  the  dark  brows  drew  together.  "He  never 
walks  on  the  public  streets." 

"Never?  Who  shall  say  that  on  such  a  night  as 
this?"  Twirling  his  fingers  lightly.  "Love  upsets 
all  habits." 

"Your  wits  are  improving,"  she  commented,  ey- 
ing him  more  sharply.  "Perhaps  you  are  not  such 
a  fool—" 

"No,  indeed." 

"The  master,  too,  may  have  smoked  a  little  to 
compose  himself,"  suggested  the  stableman,  "and 
if  you  knocked  louder — " 

She  started  to  go.  "Why  such  a  hurry?"  said 
the  dervish  quickly,  in  what  was  intended  to  be  a 
very  sweet  and  ingratiating  tone.  He  observed  that 
the  stableman  now  smoked  as  if  he  were  going 
through  deep  breathing  exercises.  His  eyes  were 
beginning  to  shine  brighter. 


MENACING   MOMENTS  187 

The  woman  tossed  her  head.  "There's  better 
company  for  you,"  she  said  tartly,  and  pointed  to 
the  dog.  A  moment  later  her  sandals  crunched  once 
more  on  the  gravel.  The  dervish,  with  face  still 
turned  toward  the  door  and  smile  somewhat  frozen, 
waited.  Would  the  woman  take  the  stableman's 
advice?  Or  would  Amad  be  left  to  sleep  in  peace? 
Something  warm  touched  the  young  man's  hand, 
then  was  thrust  into  it.  He  looked  down  with  sud- 
den loathing. 

"No,  no!"    To  smoke  now?    It  was  impossible. 

"Yes,  yes."  And  the  fellow  meant  it.  His  eyes 
were  very  keen,  a  little  surprised,  too,  as  at  the 
abruptness  of  the  other's  refusal;  they  were  also 
more  truculent.  They  said  plainly:  "Conviviality, 
or  fisticuffs?    Choose!" 

The  dervish  hesitated.  Every  fiber  in  him  re- 
volted. He  was  about  to  choose,  when  the  dog  put 
in  a  low  growl.  It  turned  the  scale.  Willy-nilly, 
he  accepted  the  convivial  role. 

The  bees  had  come  back.  They  hummed  louder 
than  ever  in  the  dervish's  brain,  though  toward  the 
last  he  had  merely  pretended  to  smoke.  How  many 
times  had  he  and  this  fellow  taken  turns?     The 


1 88      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

stableman's  head  rolled  a  little  now  on  his  shoul- 
ders and  his  lips  chanted  rude  love  songs — not  too 
delicate  effusions  that  he  had  picked  up  near  the 
stands  of  the  story-tellers.  They  had  sunk  in  and 
now  they  came  out.  Also  he  exhibited  a  disposition 
to  become  maudlinly  confidential.  He  even  started 
to  speak  of  the  master  and  his  young  bride;  how  it 
was  house  gossip  on  one  occasion  that  the  latter — 

But  the  dervish  did  not  hear;  she,  too,  was  in  his 
thoughts — differently.  The  world  seemed  turning 
around;  it  was  a  topsyturvy  world.  He  hardly 
saw  the  stableman  now  for  the  girl's  face  was  be- 
tween them.  He  distinguished  it  plainly  in  the 
cloud  of  smoke,  as  he  had  seen  it  the  last  time.  Now 
it  floated  toward  the  ceiling,  then  it  came  nearer, 
only  to  recede  and  vanish  beyond  in  the  darkness. 
Behind  that  diaphanous  bluish  nebula,  the  Star  of 
the  Desert  occasionally  attracted  attention  to  him- 
self by  kicking. 

"Your  turn !"  breathed  a  voice  uncertainly.  The 
dervish  caught  himself  up  with  a  jerk,  only  to  be- 
come aware  that  the  dog  stood  now  squarely  between 
him  and  the  man.  That  diabolical  beast!  It  had 
sinews   like   whip-cords;   its   mouth,   through   the 


MENACING   MOMENTS  189 

smoke,  seemed  to  possess  the  gripping  possibilities 
of  a  steel  trap.  The  stableman  and  it  had  changed 
places.  The  man  was  the  beast;  the  beast  repre- 
sented intelligence.  It  watched  over  him.  Even 
when  he  bestowed  upon  it  now  another  forcible  evi- 
dence of  his  regard,  as  a  matter  of  habit,  it  only 
moved  just  beyond  reach  of  the  iron  shod  boot.  This 
common  mangy  canine  of  the  gutters,  almost  as 
big  as  a  young  heifer,  appeared  to  have  as  many 
watchful  heads  as  that  fabled  quadruped  of  the  in- 
fernal regions.  It  was  no  mere  cur  any  longer;  it 
looked  like  a  super-cur.  It  inspired  an  enormous 
respect. 

The  dervish  tried  to  think,  to  marshal  his  ideas 
more  clearly  and  the  moments  slowly  passed.  Again 
he  bowed  his  head.  He  fdt  sleepy.  The  dog 
seemed  to  regard  this  as  a  kind  of  truce  and  closed 
one  eye.  Damascus  dogs  seldom  sleep  with  both  eyes 
closed.     It  isn't  healthy. 

In  the  dervish's  brain  those  busy  bees  seemed  at 
length  to  be  folding  their  wings ;  they  were  settling 
on  flowers  in  the  coziest  fashion — bright  red 
flowers —  The  stableman  now  leaned  back  while 
little  puffs  of  smoke  came  spasmodically  from  his 


I90      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

lips;  then  the  tube  fell  from  his  fingers,  uncoiled 
gently  and  stretched  out  like  a  thing  of  life  at  his 
feet.  He  was  in  Elysium.  Unseraphic  snores  is- 
sued from  his  mouth  and  a  caravan  could  have 
passed  over  him  without  dissipating  his  dreams  or 
disturbing  his  bliss. 

But  the  dervish  neither  saw  nor  heard  him.  He, 
too,  experienced  a  delightful  lassitude.  Peace  after 
storm!  Tranquillity!  Blissful  lure  of  the  senses! 
Dreamtime!  The  girl,  fair  as  a  peri,  at  the  portals 
of  paradise!  But  Amad? — what  had  become  of 
him?  He  had  seized  him  and — ^what  was  that 
noise  ? — 

In  his  stall  the  Star  kicked  loudly  and  the  dervish, 
with  a  herculean  effort,  staggered  to  his  feet.  He 
had  to  throw  off  that  lassitude,  to  rise  above  it.  The 
dog,  too,  got  up  and  each  looked  at  the  other  a  mo- 
ment. Then  the  dervish  went  to  the  window  and 
opened  it.  His  head  reeled  but  the  fresh  air  re- 
vived him  a  little  and  he  drew  in  great  draughts. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  sound  from  the  house — like 
a  pounding  or  beating  on  the  floor  and  some  one 
calling  out.  That  might  be  fancy,  or  it  might  be 
the  woman  servant  again  at  the  door  of  the  man- 


MENACING   MOMENTS  191 

darah,  knocking  louder  this  time.  Or  it  may  have 
come  from  the  front.  In  that  case,  another  caller! 
He  turned  toward  the  snoring  stableman,  to  stoop 
over  him,  but  suddenly  stopped.  The  devil  was  to 
pay  in  earnest!  Some  one  surely  could  be  heard 
calling  shrilly  now — the  woman  who  had  been  to  the 
barn  ?  Exclamations,  wailings,  shouts  soon  followed. 
Lights  flashed  at  the  windows.  He  had  stayed  too 
long.  The  dervish  straightened  and  his  hand 
grasped  the  heavy  iron  shears  he  had  been  using 
that  afternoon.  The  super-cur  saw.  Certainly  it 
had  the  sporting  instinct.  It  had  waited  for  the 
man  to  make  the  first  move.    But  now  it  sprang. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

CAPTIVE 

AT  one  of  the  latticed  windows  of  Light  of 
J,  V. Life's  home  the  young  girl,  a  little  while 
later,  stood  looking  out  into  the  night.  She  was 
as  much  captive  as  if  the  aga  of  police  had  ordered 
her  into  custody.  Light  of  Life  trusted  her  now 
less  than  ever  and  would  guard  her  charge  most 
closely  until  the  morrow.  After  that,  it  would  be 
Amad's  turn  again.  "And  little  do  I  envy  him  the 
task !"  the  stepmother  had  said  to  the  girl.  "Shame- 
less one  that  you  are!"  The  other's  dark  eyes  had 
smoldered,  but  she  made  no  reply.  She  received 
Light  of  Life's  alternate  sighs  and  invectives  con- 
cerning her  conduct  alike  with  scornful  indifference. 

Her  face  now  was  pale,  but  there  was  still  that 
smoldering  light  in  her  eyes.  She  walked  from  the 
lattice  restlessly,  then  returned  to  it.  The  dis- 
creetly guarded  opening  looked  out  into  the  street. 
Any  one  gazing  from  it  had  a  restricted  view  of 

192 


r1 


■/lk\l»i.M  V(,(v  )rtt:'er 


She  was  as  much  captive  as  if  the  agha  of  poh'ce  had 
ordered  her  into  custody" 


\ 


CAPTIVE  193 

the  world,  about  half  a  block  or  so  of  narrow  thor- 
oughfare and  an  equally  curtailed  vision  of  the 
heavens.  The  sky  wore  a  peculiar  aspect ;  the  clouds 
had  a  sickly  yellowish  hue  which  did  not  come  from 
the  moon,  or  the  constellations  above.  Nowhere 
in  the  world  are  the  stars  brighter,  but  to-night 
there  were  no  stars.  Sometimes  scurrying  feet  dis- 
turbed the  stillness;  again  there  were  distant  rat-a- 
tat  sounds  from  afar,  but  to  these  the  girl  listened 
with  odd  apathy.  Though  the  heavens  might  fall, 
Amad  and  Light  of  Life  would  not  be  turned  from 
their  purpose.  How  fast  the  hours  went !  The  little 
clock  in  a  recess  of  the  room  showed  the  night  well 
advanced,  yet  she  had  no  desire  to  sleep.  Her  hand 
lifted  and  touched  something  hard  in  the  bosom  of 
her  dress,  a  small  vial.  Well,  Syrian  poisons  act 
quickly.  She  wished  Amad  much  joy  of  his  bar- 
gain. She  could  fancy  his  and  Light  of  Life's  con- 
cern. Perhaps  that  last  person  wouldn't  get  her 
commission.  That  would  be  funny.  The  old  dia- 
mond merchant  had  the  reputation  of  being  penu- 
rious at  times. 

"Still  up?"    One  of  the  subjects  of  her  thoughts 
had  noiselessly  entered  the  room  and  Light  of  Life 


194      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

regarded  the  girl  sourly.  "You  should  retire,  so  as 
to  look  well  for  the  morrow." 

Look  well!  That,  too,  struck  the  girl  as  funny. 
"Why  should  I  look  well?"  she  asked,  with  that 
expression  in  the  dark  eyes  which  the  elder  woman 
did  not  like;  it  was  an  expression  that,  indeed,  in- 
furiated her. 

"For  your  wedding,  of  course.  A  girl  usually 
wants  to  look  well  on  her  wedding-day." 

"But  to-morrow  isn't  going  to  be  my  wedding- 
day." 

"Isn't  it?    Why  not?" 

The  girl  was  silent,  though  she  could  feel  the 
other's  eyes  on  her,  keenly,  curiously.  Light  of 
Life  knew  how  difficult  it  was  to  handle  the  per- 
verse minx.  What  was  in  her  mind  now?  What 
would  she  not  give  to  break  that  obstinate  temper, 
to  bend  the  other  to  her  will?  "Why  not?"  the 
elder  woman  repeated  challengingly.  "Do  you  hope 
to  draw  a  dagger  again  as  you  did  before,  brazen 
that  you  are!" 

"Do  you  call  that  brazen?"  laughed  the  girl.  But 
it  was  not  a  gay  infectious  laugh.  "You  have  no 
right  to  attempt  to  force  me  to  this.  You  can  not 
marry  me  again  to  that  horrible  old  man.    You  de- 


CAPTIVE  195 

ceived  me — ^lied  to  me  before,  but  now? — I  was 
never  his  wife;  I  never  will  be.  It  is  inconceivable 
— impossible!  Besides,  you  can  not  do  it,  because 
I  am  still  a  wife.  That — that  mustahall  did  not 
divorce  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  did,"  said  Light  of  Life  sweetly. 

*T  don't  believe  it." 

"We  have  the  affidavits  of  four  persons  who 
heard  him." 

"Affidavits!  Lies,  you  mean."  So  that  was  how 
they  would  overcome  the  difficulty.  The  dervish 
might  not  really  be  dead,  then;  he  might  reappear. 
There  was  a  chance ;  and  these  people  would  take  no 
chances. 

"Take  care  how  you  impugn  the  word  of  four 
honest  men,"  said  Light  of  Life  severely. 

"Honest  men?  Friends  of  Amad,  no  doubt,  and 
of  yours!"     A  little  wildly. 

"And  if  so?"   Darkly. 

"Perjurers !" 

"You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying,"  Light  of 
Life  answered  with  an  accent  of  contempt.  "There- 
fore I  overlook  it.  You  are  young  and  foolish,  as 
well  as  headstrong  and  reckless.  Fortunately,  you 
have  others  to  guide  you." 


196      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"You — who  have  always  hated  me!" 

"Have  a  care!" 

"Though  why  ? —  Unless  it  is  because  my  mother 
was  a  Christian  and  I,  as  a  child,  was  brought  up 
in  a  little  mission!" 

"Do  not  speak  of  it !  Luckily,  we  rescued  you  in 
time." 

"Would  you  had  left  me  there,"  said  the  girl 
bitterly. 

"This,  to  me,  who  have  ever  shown  you  a 
mother's  care?  This,  my  reward?  Well,  Allah 
will  repay." 

"Allah!   You  mean  Amad,"  laughed  the  girl. 

"Impudent  jade!"  Light  of  Life  was  losing  her 
temper  in  earnest;  she  could  have  struck  those 
laughing  flower-like  lips.  "It  is  most  generous  of 
him  to  take  you  back  at  all." 

"I  will  dispense  with  his  generosity,"  said  Fatma 
in  the  same  tone. 

"To  take  you  back  at  all,"  repeated  Light  of  Life, 
"after  your — shall  I  say  immoral  conduct?  Your 
meeting  this  shameless  vagabond  alone  like  that! 
Had  you  no  regard  for  your  reputation?" 

"Was  he  not  my  husband  ?"  again  laughed  the  girl. 


CAPTIVE  197 

Oh,  those  red  defiant  lips !  How  Light  of  Life  hated 
them !  "You  picked  him  out.  Or  Amad  did."  Her 
merriment  was  strange,  unnatural. 

"Such  language!  I  believe  you  were  taKen  with 
him — this  handsome  vagabond  from  nowhere !  Oh, 
you  should  blush.    I  blush  for  you." 

"You!"  said  the  girl  in  the  same  tone.    "You!" 

Light  of  Life  looked  at  the  girl  sharply.  Had 
some  of  her  own  servants  been  gossiping?  Had 
they  whispered  how  she  had,  on  one  or  two  occa- 
sions, shed  the  light  of  her  condescension  in  surrep- 
titious quarters?    The  elder  changed  the  subject. 

"Well,  he  is  dead,"  she  murmured  with  satisfac- 
tion.   "This  beggar  who  has  made  all  the  trouble !" 

"Dead?  Then  how  could  he  have  divorced  me?" 
Light  of  Life  pressed  her  thin  lips  together.  She 
had  been  caught  in  a  trap.  "How  could  they  have 
made  the  affidavits  ?" 

"It  is  sufficient  we  have  them,"  retorted  the  elder 
woman.  "He — he  was  killed  afterward.  By  some 
native  Christians,"  she  added. 

The  dark  eyes  only  answered.  Their  mirthless 
mirth  alone  replied.  The  girl  might  well  believe  he 
was  dead,  but  not  "afterward."    Again  she  stood  at 


198      ALADDIN    FROM   BROADWAY 

the  casement  and  heard  the  sibilant  seething  of  dark 
waters.  Again  she  saw  the  handsome  reckless  face 
of  this  vagabond  husband  of  hers  just  before —  A 
sudden  rush  of  color  came  to  her  face.  Her  eyes 
suddenly  flashed.  How  often  had  she  lived  over  that 
last  mad  moment  !  But  he  had  paid — paid — the  pre- 
sumptuous fellow!  Was  she  glad?  The  color  re- 
ceded and  left  her  paler  than  before.  At  least,  he 
was  brave.  The  fire  died  completely  out  of  the  dark 
eyes  and  left  them  dreamy.  At  that  moment  they 
were  very  soulful,  young  and  poetic  eyes.  He  had 
leaped  to  his  death  with  a  laugh — 

Below  came  a  knocking  at  the  gate  leading  into 
the  court. 

"Who  can  that  be,  at  this  late  hour?"  Light  of 
Life  turned.  Perhaps  she  was  not  sorry  to  terminate 
the  interview.  "Some  message  pertaining  to  to- 
morrow, no  doubt !  I  shall  see,"  she  added  and  left 
the  room. 

The  girl  gazed  mechanically  down  into  the  street 
before  the  house.  "A  message  pertaining  to  the 
morrow."  What  interest  could  it,  or  the  messenger, 
have  for  her?  Vaguely  in  the  dim  light  she  dis- 
cerned the  figure  of  a  horseman.    His  mount  seemed 


CAPTIVE  199 

nervous  and  struck  impatiently  at  the  stones 
with  his  hoofs,  so  that  she  saw  a  spark  or  two  fly. 
The  man,  also,  showed  impatience  and  knocked 
again  in  more  peremptory  fashion,  whereupon  the 
sleepy  hoivwab,  grumbling  about  people  who  came 
at  unseemly  hours,  opened  the  gate.  The  horseman 
thrust  out  an  arm ;  the  light  from  the  lattice  fell  on 
it  and  on  something  white  which  he  held  toward  the 
displeased  Abyssinian. 

"A  message  from  Amad  Ahl-Masr,"  said  the 
horseman  gruffly.  "To  be  delivered  at  once!  Not 
an  instant's  delay!  My  master  says  it  is  most  im- 
portant." 

The  bowwab  answered  in  more  respectful  tones 
and  took  the  message,  upon  which  the  rider  spoke  to 
his  horse,  wheeled  and  dashed  away.  The  girl 
watched  him  disappear,  and  the  bowwab  again 
locked  the  gate.  She  could  hear  his  shuffling  steps 
crossing  the  court,  then  the  rather  noisy  slap,  slap 
of  his  slippers  on  the  stairs.  He  had  been  aroused 
from  slumber  himself  and  he  didn't  care  how  many 
others  of  the  sleeping  household  he  disturbed.  Light 
of  Life  awaited  his  coming  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"From  Amad  Ahl-Masr  ?    Why  should  he  be  writ- 


200      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

ing  so  late?  Nothing  has  happened  I  trust,"  the  girl 
heard  her  say. 

Then  slap,  slap !  The  slippers  were  descending  the 
stairs  and  the  bowwab  returned  to  his  hard  bed  of 
burlap  near  the  gate.  The  girl  as  from  a  great, 
great  distance,  now  caught  the  crackling  of  paper  in 
the  adjoining  room.  Then  silence  followed.  Silence 
of  considerable  duration.  Light  of  Life  had  opened 
and  was  reading  the  message.  Still  the  other  felt  not 
the  slightest  concern  in  its  contents.  She  wished 
only  to  be  left  alone.  But  even  this  wish  was  not  to 
be  granted.  There  was  a  louder  rustling  in  the  next 
apartment,  the  door  was  thrown  open  and  Light  of 
Life  again  entered — or  this  time,  she  fairly  rushed 
in.  Something  obviously  had  happened.  She  held 
the  message  in  her  hand  and  the  paper  shook,  while 
consternation  was  written  on  her  sallow  and  unpre- 
possessing countenance. 

"Get  ready  to  leave  the  house  at  once." 

The  girl  looked  at  her.    "Why  at  once?"  she  said. 

"Why?  Read."  And  Light  of  Life  thrust  the 
message  before  her. 

The  girl  scanned  it.  , 


CAPTIVE  20I 

"Have  just  learned  the  Christian  quarter  will  be 
fired  to-night.  As  your  house  is  near,  the  danger 
is  great.  Leave  at  once  with  your  daughter  for  my 
residence.  The  wedding  can  take  place  here.  I 
am  making  all  arrangements  for  it  and  for  the  re- 
ception of  yourselves  and  as  many  servants  as  you 
may  choose  for  your  escort." 

After  this,  a  big  blotch  of  red  sealing-wax  and 
the  imprint  of  a  great  seal. 

"His  seal,"  murmured  Light  of  Life.  "Do  I  not 
know  it?  He  keeps  it  in  his  big  safe.  But  the  post- 
script— read  that." 

It  expressed  greater  perturbation  on  the  part  of 
the  writer: 

"In  the  name  of  Allah,  lose  not  a  moment." 

"There !  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?"  said  Light 
of  Life. 

"I  think  that  he  is  old  and  nervous,"  replied  the 
girl  scornfully.  "I  don't  believe  there  is  any  dan- 
ger. 

"He  is  prudent,  and  in  a  position  to  know," 
snapped  the  other. 

"If  you  are  afraid,  do  you  go  and  leave  me."  The 


202      ALADDIN   FROM    BROADWAY 

girl's  eyes  lighted  with  a  faint  spark  of  hope,  but 
Light  of  Life  didn't  answer. 

The  latter  struck  a  gong;  a  woman  servant  ap- 
peared, and  to  her  the  mistress  of  the  house  gave 
hurried  orders  in  a  voice  which  fear  dominated.  The 
servant  listened  attentively,  bowed  and  went. 

Soon  from  below  in  the  court  came  the  sound  of 
horses'  hoofs.  Nags,  donkeys  and  asses  had  been 
hurriedly  pressed  into  service.  Bundles  were  brought 
from  the  house  while  servants  jabbered ;  one  or  two 
swore.  The  great  bowwab  wasted  many  words ;  he 
was  like  a  giant  child  superintending  the  details  of 
this  hurried  departure. 

"Come,"  now  said  Light  of  Life  authoritatively 
to  the  girl.    That  tone  meant  "no  nonsense !" 

"You  will  not  go  and  leave  me?"  suggested  the 
other  almost  gently.  "I  have  no  fear  of  what  may 
happen  here." 

"Will  you  come,  or — ?"  Light  of  Life's  tones 
became  menacing.    She  would  waste  no  more  time. 

The  shapely  shoulders  of  the  girl  lifted.  She 
knew  she  had  no  alternative.  They  would  take  her, 
willy-nilly.  If  she  held  back  they  would  provide  for 
her  the  hodag,  or  closed  litter.    The  giant  bowwab 


CAPTIVE  ao3 

might,  in  that  case,  be  her  personal  attendant.  She 
had  no  choice,  indeed.  She  must  go,  or — her  hand 
reached  to  her  breast.  Yet  she  delayed  a  little.  She 
would  start  with  them.  Yes ;  she  could  do  that.  An 
enigmatic  expression  played  around  the  sweet  fresh 
lips.  She  felt  distinctly — how  distinctly ! — something 
cold  and  hard  against  her  warm  young  breast.  She 
liked  to  feel  it.  It  reassured  her,  and  with  a  smile 
she  followed  the  elder  woman  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  CAVALCADE 

THEY  rode  forth,  an  imposing  enough  caval- 
cade, the  girl  at  her  stepmother's  side,  well 
toward  the  front,  not  because  she  wished  to  ride 
there,  but  because  the  other  had  indicated  her  desires 
in  this  regard.  The  dusky  howwah  commanded  the 
outriders  and  was  prepared  to  shout  to  any  who 
might  get  in  their  way.  But  the  street  before  them 
was  fairly  deserted.  His  mistress  had  selected  a 
roundabout  route,  remote  from  the  Christian  quar- 
ter, in  order  to  incur  no  unnecessary  risks.  Gazing 
back,  however,  after  they  had  galloped  on  some  little 
distance,  Light  of  Life  noted  that  a  number  of  per- 
sons had  arrived  in  the  vicinity  of  the  domicil  they 
had  so  recently  left.  She  could  not  make  out  the  fig- 
ures of  these  people — they  were  too  far  away — but 
she  saw  that  they  carried  shealehs,  or  watchmen's 
torches.    Moreover  the  night  breeze  seemed  to  waft 

204   . 


THE    CAVALCADE  205 

to  her  the  sound  of  excited  voices.  That  might  be 
only  perturbed  fancy,  but  they  had  certainly  stopped 
at,  or  near,  her  house.  A  dire  possibility  assumed  the 
dimensions  of  a  startling  conclusion.  Light  of  Life's 
nerves  weren't  any  too  strong  at  the  moment. 

These  people  might  have  come  there  because  it  had 
been  rumored  that  the  girl's  own  mother  had  been 
a  Christian,  and  that  she,  the  child,  when  very  young, 
had  imbibed  the  foul  heresies.  The  elder  woman  had 
been  through  one  "holy  massacre,"  and  she  knew 
that  on  the  last  memorable  and  terrible  occasion, 
some  not  Christians,  had  been  too  quickly  dealt  with 
by  the  frenzied  devotees.  She  gave,  therefore,  the 
order  to  make  all  haste.  The  sooner  they  were  at  the 
diamond  merchant's  house,  the  better. 

The  girl  by  her  side  heard  and  smiled.  How 
puerile  the  other's  apprehensions  seemed  to  her  at 
that  moment!  Her  own  horse  being  a  poor  one — ■ 
had  Light  of  Life  designedly  seen  to  that? — now 
fell  back  a  little.  Light  of  Life  did  not  notice  this 
fact,  however ;  she  was  too  concerned  with  her  own 
fears,  and  quickly  the  girl  glanced  around  her.  But 
any  slight  hope  she  may  have  had  of  being  able  to 
escape  was  quickly  shattered.    She  was  well  guarded. 


2o6      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

Before  and  behind  her  were  servants  who,  doubt- 
lessly, had  been  carefully  instructed.  It  would  be 
foolish  for  her  to  attempt  to  get  away.  She  would 
only  make  herself  ridiculous  before  all  these  serving 
men  and  the  others.  Already  one  of  the  former 
pressed  closer  to  her  side.  This  was  going  rather 
far,  for  servants,  according  to  the  punctilious  code 
of  Moslem  etiquette,  are  not  supposed  to  ride  by  the 
side  of  their  young  mistresses.  They  were  treating 
her  as  a  criminal  might  expect  to  be  treated.  She 
forbore,  nevertheless,  to  speak  reprovingly  to  this 
forward  one  of  her  guards ;  to  do  so  would  be  only 
to  lower  herself.  She  proudly  refused  even  to 
look  at  him.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter?  The 
ride  would  soon  be  over  and  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  never  again  to  enter  Amad's  house. 

Furtively  her  hand  sought  her  breast.  The  fel- 
low was  riding  very  close  now.  A  single  motion  of 
the  arm,  however,  and  it  would  make  very  little 
difference  whether  any  of  the  guard  were  far  or 
near.  Yet  still  she  hesitated,  fingering  the  vial. 
Once  it  had  held  delicate  perfume.  How  different 
its  contents  now !  She  started  to  draw  it  forth,  when 
the  horse  of  the  guard  who  had  just  annoyed 


THE   CAVALCADE  207 

her  by  pressing  too  close,  now  brushed  her  own 
mount. 

"Pardon,"  the  fellow  muttered  in  a  low  hoarse 
voice. 

The  girl's  hand  fell  to  her  side.  She  was  half 
mindful  to  reprove  this  overzealous  one  of  her 
escort,  only  if  she  did,  he  might  answer  he  served 
Light  of  Life,  not  her;  that  the  older  woman  was 
his  mistress.  Better  endure;  it  could  not  be  for 
long.  So  she  did  not  speak  or  look  at  him.  She  still 
professed  to  seem  unaware  of  his  presence.  Though 
his  careless  or  unmannerly  action  had  deferred  her 
purpose,  she  yet  held  the  vial.  Her  fingers  contin- 
ued to  retain  it,  even  when  her  hand  had  dropped. 
It  lay  hard  and  reassuring  in  her  palm  and  gave  her 
courage.  With  it  she  could  defy  them  all.  There 
was  one  way  to  escape.  They  couldn't  prevent  it. 
She  could  laugh  at  bars  and  locks  and  chains — ^and 
Light  of  Life  and  Amad,  that  horrible  old  satyr — 

An  odd  exhilaration  seemed  now  to  uplift  her; 
her  spirit  felt  free  as  the  wind.  One,  a  poor  beggar, 
had  paid  for  his  fealty  to  her.  Well,  she  regretted 
only  that.  At  the  instant,  she  forgot  her  resentment 
toward  him,  remembering  only  his  service.     The 


2o8      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

dark  eyes  were  dreamy,  lustrous.  She  might  have 
been  riding  through  space,  for  these  people  around 
were  nothing  to  her.  They  were  but  shadows.  The 
red  curving  young  lips  wore  a  smile.  Any  one  to 
look  at  her  would  have  said:  "How  happy  this 
bride !    She  must  be  thinking  of  the  bridegroom." 

For  some  time  they  rode  thus  and  she  bethought 
herself  once  more  of  her  purpose  when  again  that 
mettlesome  horse  of  the  presumptuous  guard,  dis- 
turbed perhaps  by  unwonted  sounds  from  the  dis- 
tance, became  slightly  unmanageable  and  touched 
for  the  second  her  own  spiritless  nag.  She  might 
scarcely  have  noticed  it,  but  at  the  same  instant  a 
hand  grasped  and  distinctly  pressed  her  arm.  In- 
tentionally? The  fellow's  fingers  were  loosened  in 
a  moment.  In  the  dark  no  one  could  have  seen  the 
quick  motion. 

"Pardon !"  again  came  the  low  hoarse  voice. 

But  in  the  girl's  face  there  was  no  "pardon."  At 
that  over- familiar,  insolent  touch,  the  vial,  in  her 
surprise,  had  fallen  from  her  fingers.  It  had  fallen 
to  the  earth,  and,  perhaps,  had  been  broken.  At  any 
rate  it  was  gone  beyond  recall.  She  could  not  stop 
^nd  turn  back  to  get  it.    Her  most  precious  posses- 


THE    CAVALCADE  209 

sion  was  lost.  Her  face  flamed  with  passionate 
anger  against  him — this  insulting  and  blundering 
domestic — who  had  robbed  her  of  it.  She  looked 
at  him  with  flashing  eyes. 

"How  dared  you?"  she  breathed  in  choked 
tones.  Her  pride  was  in  arms.  She  could  have 
struck  him  with  her  riding-whip. 

It  is  probable  that  he — and  he  alone — ^heard,  but 
he  did  not  answer.  His  face  was  half  turned  from 
her  and  he  seemed  impervious  to  his  offense.  He 
was  tall  and  rode  superbly.  This  fact  dawned  on 
her  and  surprised  her;  ordinary  household  servants 
do  not  ride  like  that.  Moreover,  his  mount  was 
splendid.  An  impression  of  something  familiar 
about  the  rider  gradually  crept  over  her.  She  could 
not  see  him  very  well,  in  that  dim  light,  but  the 
horse,  she  now  made  sure  was  Star  of  the  Desert. 

The  fellow,  then,  must  be  from  Amad's.  The 
others  of  the  escort  who  had  noted  him  must  have 
concluded  likewise.  What  more  natural  than  that 
the  diamond  merchant  should  send  a  servant,  or  a 
representative,  to  meet  Light  of  Life  and  her 
charge  on  this  occasion?  Perhaps  he  was  the  mes- 
senger?   But  that  person  had  ridden  away.     This 


2IO      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

fellow,  then,  could  not  be  the  messenger,  unless  he 
had  drawn  rein  and  waited  at  some  street  corner  for 
the  party  to  pass.  But  Amad's  messenger  surely 
would  not  have  done  that.  There  would  be  no  rea- 
son for  his  so  doing.  He  would  have  stayed  at 
Light  of  Life's  house  if  his  instructions  had  been  to 
make  one  of  this  hasty  prenuptial  procession.    He — 

At  that  moment  the  fellow  turned  his  face  fully 
toward  her.  He  did  so  just  when  a  flicker  of  light 
from  one  of  the  few  grudging  street-lamps  could 
pass  over  his  features. 

"Do  not  seem  surprised — "  he  whispered. 

A  sharp  exclamation,  however,  fell  from  the  girl's 
lips.  She  could  not  help  it.  Her  mood  had  been 
tense  and  strained  and  she  felt  as  if  she  were  look- 
ing at  a  ghost.  She  stared  almost  helplessly  at  the 
face;  then  it  receded  and  darkness  claimed  it.  The 
rider  had  quietly  dropped  back.  Light  of  Life 
looked  around. 

"In  Allah's  name,  what  is  it?" 

"My — ^my  horse  stumbled." 

"Only  that?"    Doubtingly. 

"I — I  thought  I  should  be  thrown.  It  is  a  poor 
beast." 


THE   CAVALCADE  211 

"Humph !  The  horse  is  well  enough.  You  should 
learn  to  ride  better  than  that.     Keep  with  me." 

The  girl  was  obliged  to  do  so.  Light  of  Life  now 
gazed  suspiciously  back.  At  first  she  noticed  noth- 
ing unusual.  Her  escort  came  clattering  behind 
numerically  reassuring.  The  fellow  who  had  be- 
haved so  rudely  to  her  charge  was  only  one  among 
many.  Light  of  Life  did  not  pause  to  count  the 
members  of  her  party.  She  had  no  time  for  mathe- 
matical calculations.  She  looked  at  the  fellow — or 
the  indistinct  outline  that  was  he,  and  might  be  any 
one — and  then  beyond  him,  when  her  gaze  was 
abruptly  arrested.  Farther  down  the  road  appeared 
lights — people  riding  after  them.  Light  of  Life 
conceived  this  as  a  just  cause  for  alarm.  These 
might  be  the  persons  who  had  paused  before  her 
house.  They  might  be  intent  now  on  overtaking  her 
and  her  party,  so  she  gave  the  command  to  push  on 
faster  than  ever.  Fortunately  they  were  drawing 
near  the  diamond  merchant's  home  and  once  within 
that  palatial  abode  Light  of  Life's  party  would  be 
as  safe  as  in  a  fortress. 

He,  who  had  so  startled  the  young  girl,  saw,  also, 
those  people  coming  after  them.     He  shared  Light 


212      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

of  Life's  opinion,  too,  that  they  were  trying  to  over- 
take them,  but  not  for  the  reasons  that  estimable 
lady  attributed  to  them.  Riding  now  at  the  rear  of 
the  party,  the  young  man  looked  back  to  survey  their 
pursuers  intently.  An  expression  of  grim  amuse- 
ment came  to  his  face,  though  his  heart-beat  pound- 
ed. What  a  dear,  superlatively  comic  old  lady  his 
mother-in-law  could  be  on  occasion !  How  she  was 
whacking  the  ribs  of  her  noble  steed!  And  these 
other  members  of  her  escort,  how  some  of  them 
were  whacking!  Asses,  donkeys  and  nags  bobbed 
up  and  down  in  most  ludicrous  fashion. 

That  tragic  ghost  of  a  smile  faded,  however,  from 
the  young  man's  features.  "He  laughs  best  who 
laughs  last."  And  Light  of  Life's  turn  might  come. 
Indeed,  it  seemed  as  if  it  would  come  very  soon. 
Already  before  them,  he  could  see  the  lights  of 
Amad's  dwelling.  The  upper  floors  were  all  illu- 
mined ;  the  windows  shone  as  if  a  fete  were  in  prog- 
ress. But  a  single  intervening  street  separated  them 
now  from  the  great  house — their  destination.  The 
end  was  near;  It  appeared  inevitable. 

Nearer  to  Amad's  house !  Nearer !  The  young 
man  looked  toward  the  girl.     He  could  hardly  see 


THE   CAVALCADE  213 

her  for  the  intervening  figures,  and  pressed  suddenly 
forward,  drawing  his  cloak  up  about  the  lower 
part  of  his  face.  So  a  Mohammedan  protects  his 
mouth  and  nostrils  when  the  night  air  is  cold.  Pass- 
ers-by, thus  muffled,  can  hardly  be  told  for  friend 
or  foe.  He  was  now  close  behind  the  young  girl, 
who  had  fallen  back  a  little — whether  by  accident  or 
design,  he  could  not  tell — and,  under  pretext  that  his 
horse  was  again  unmanageable,  he  pressed  directly 
in  front  of  her.  He  was  then  between  her  and  Light 
of  Life.  That  person  looked  at  him;  she  saw  but 
the  steady  cold  eyes.  She  saw  the  girl,  near  enough. 
She  saw  the  house  of  Amad,  reassuringly  close.  So 
she  said  nothing;  she  only  gave  her  horse  another 
whack. 

Clatter!  clatter!  A  donkey  sang.  Awful  mel- 
ody! Behind  them  now  some  of  the  escort  were 
calling  out.  What  were  they  saying?  That  those 
coming  after  were  friends — sent  by  Amad?  Im- 
possible ! 

Bewildered,  Light  of  Life  looked  around.  At  the 
same  moment,  the  young  man,  now  riding  at  the 
girl's  side,  bent  toward  her  and  said  something. 
Again   louder   voices    from    behind.      Confusiop! 


-14      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

There  had  been  "no  need  for  their  leaving  the 
house?"  What  was  that ?  Who  was  yelHng?  That 
awful  donkey!  More  ear-splitting  music!  The 
evil  one  take  the  beast!  Why  did  it  choose  this 
psychological  moment  for  its  stentorian  vocal  per- 
formance? Was  it  jealous  of  the  row  the  others 
were  making?  Did  it  desire  to  show  that  its  lung- 
power  could  dominate  all  creation? 

The  foremost  of  those  following  seemed  to  have 
come  up  and  mingled  with  the  van  of  Light  of  Life's 
party.  It  was  like  the  meeting  of  two  lively,  con- 
verging currents,  producing  at  the  point  of  contact 
a  turbulent  and  up-tossing  eddy.  Now  they  were  at 
the  cross  street.  Amad's  house,  yawning  with  eager 
and  evil  hospitality,  loomed  almost  before  them, 
when  the  young  man  again  said  something  to  the 
girl.  At  that  low,  tense,  yet  supplicating  command 
the  slender  figure  swayed  toward  him  and  the  next 
moment  she  was  swept  from  her  horse  and  on  his. 
Light  of  Life  saw  and  threw  up  her  hands. 

The  Star  sped  down  the  cross-road.  The  last 
glimpse  the  dervish  had  of  his  mother-in-law  she 
was  waving  her  arms  like  an  animated  scarecrow. 
She  may  have  been  screaming,  too,  but  if  so,  he  did 


THE   CAVALCADE  215 

not  hear  it  for  all  the  other  noise  and  clatter.  Some 
of  the  escort  came  after  them,  but  futilely;  the  Star 
was  now  a  shooting  star  for  velocity. 

"Delight  of  my  soul,"  the  young  man  muttered — 
to  the  horse,  of  course,  for  thus  do  Arabs  speak  to 
their  equine  friends.  The  "delight"  tossed  his  kingly 
head  and  sped  on.  It  was  not  a  race,  but  a  walk- 
away. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

VARYING  FORTUNES 

TO  the  dervish  it  was  more  than  that.  It  was 
something  unreal,  unbehevable.  He  could 
hardly  credit  his  own  good  fortune.  It  had  all  been 
too  easy.  It  was  almost  as  easy  as  magic — as  some 
deed  of  the  magical  youth  on  the  magical  horse,  in 
one  of  the  magical  tales,  eighty-three  or  thirty-eight 
of  the  Elf  Leyleh.  In  that  astonishing  story  the 
young  man  on  the  magical  horse  had  but  to  speak  to 
the  beast  and  tell  it  to  fly  and  straightway  they  had 
gone  hurtling  through  the  air  to  the  palace  of  en- 
chantment, set  on  a  mountainside. 

But  the  dervish  couldn't  quite  do  that ;  he  couldn't 
turn  a  quadruped  into  a  biplane.  He  couldn't  even 
transform  a  quadruped  into  a  quadruplane.  He 
didn't  possess  the  old  wizard's  art.  So  he  did  the 
next  best  thing.  He  urged  the  Star  along  as  best  he 
might  on  terra  firma.     And  for  a  mere,  ordinary, 

216 


VARYING   FORTUNES  217 

mortal,  young  man  his  satisfaction  or  elation  was 
quite  sufficient. 

A  few  days  ago  he  would  have  scoffed  at  the  pre- 
posterousness  of  it  all.  He  carry  off  a  young  lady? 
Absurd !  Yet  here  he  was  doing  it,  and — yes,  there 
was  no  doubt  about  it — doing  it  with  eagerness  and 
zest.  More  than  that,  he  felt  a  subtle  intoxication 
stealing  over  him.  He  strove  to  fight  it  off.  He 
told  himself  it  didn't  exist.  But  it  did  and  he  began 
to  realize  it.  He  stole  a  look  at  her.  By  Allah !  how 
beautiful  she  was.  He  had  almost  forgotten  how 
beautiful.  He  held  her  close.  It  wouldn't  do  to  let 
her  fall.  That  was  the  excuse  he  put  to  himself. 
It  would  be  an  awful  fan  a:  pas  to  do  that.  But  he 
knew  he  wanted  to  hold  her  close,  that  he  liked  to. 
And  what  was  this  sensation?  Electricity,  or  felic- 
ity? The  former,  of  course.  He  looked  at  her 
more  frequently,  perhaps  because  he  couldn't  help  it, 
just  letting  the  Star  go.  The  present — the  present— 
that's  what  concerned  hira.  He  was  surprised  it  was 
so.    Greatly ! 

A  lock  of  her  hair  made  a  playground  of  his 
cheek;  it  danced  around  like  an  elf  of  mischief. 
Her    breath    almost    mingled    with    his.      Divine 


2i8      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

warmth!  He  had  to  hold  back  words.  He  felt  a 
mighty  ebullition  seething  within  him.  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  keep  it  in  check.  He  was  not  he.  In  love  ? 
Not  at  all.    It  could  not  be.    Oh,  no ! 

And  yet,  strangely  enough,  at  this  very  moment, 
he  discovered  he  didn't  want  to  lose  her  now.  He 
didn't  wish  ever  to  let  her  go.  The  realization  came 
to  him  like  a  blow — no,  a  bitter-sweet  one.  She  was 
dear  to  him — inexpressibly.  That  was  it.  She  was 
as  sweet  as  the  flowers,  as  lovely  as  a  star.  Similes 
smote  him.  He  was  amazed.  If  he  could  only  just 
say  something,  and  yield  to  this  amazing  emotion. 
He  was  no  longer  an  automaton,  a  puppet,  a  figure 
in  a  farce.  He  was  real  and  she  was  real.  She  was 
not  distant  either,  something  hardly  to  be  touched, 
a  mere  "proposition."  She  was  near  and — for  the 
moment — she  seemed  to  belong  to  him.  He  could, 
at  least,  imagine  it  was  so ;  he  wished  it  were ;  that 
she  were  his,  not  just  for  a  little  while,  but  for 
always — as  long  as  the  suns  and  stars  continued  to 
whirl.  There !  He  had  said  it  to  himself,  anyway. 
He  had  put  his  head  in  the  golden  yoke,  or  was  it 
an  iron  one  that  would  chafe? 

He  rode  on  in  a  glamour.  He  was  not  merely  car- 


VARYING   FORTUNES  219 

rying  her  off.  He  was  undergoing  a  kind  of  miracle 
process,  rediscovering  himself,  as  it  were.  This 
ride  was  certainly  bringing  matters  to  a  focus.  It 
was  concentrating  a  myriad  scattered  emotions  into 
one  big  emotion,  or  single  shaft  of  inner  light,  the 
way  a  magnifying-glass  gathers  up  the  sunbeams 
into  one  bright  burning  disk,  which  is  sometimes 
rather  scorching,  too.  He  felt  that  scorching  touch 
now.  All  was  not  altogether  sweet.  What  caused 
that  bitter  with  the  sweet? 

Amad !  He  looked  into  the  young  face,  with  the 
long  lashes  and  sweet  proud  lips.  That  past!  He 
would  have  blotted  it  out,  if  he  could.  But  it  ex- 
isted, irrevocably.  His  face  became  set  and  very 
stern.  He  was  jealous,  and  he  knew  it.  She  would 
never  have  belonged  to  that  other.  It  was  all  wrong. 
Nothing  could  make  it  right.  Nature  herself  cried 
out  against  it.  Just  then  they  came  to  an  open  mar- 
ket place.    The  girl  stirred. 

"You  were  that  messenger?" 

"Yes."  He  spoke  almost  bruskly.  Was  he 
angry  at  himself  for  discovering  in  himself  this  new 
and  extraordinary  capacity  to  mix  in  other  people's 
affairs  and  make  them  an  intimate  part  of  his  own 


220      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

being?  Was  he  annoyed  that  he  couldn't  merely 
shrug  his  shoulders,  say  it  was  all  none  of  his  busi- 
ness and  let  it  go  at  that  ?  She  looked  at  him  won- 
deringly  but  he  did  not  explain  further.  He  hated 
explanations.  Again  she  stirred.  Now  that  they 
were  standing  still,  that  close  personal  propinquity 
seemed,  perhaps,  more  marked.  He  forgot  not  to 
hold  her  quite  so  closely,  that  it  was  hardly  neces- 
sary now. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  Slight  constraint  in  the 
girl's  tones! 

"Where?"  He  started.  Where,  indeed?  Here 
he  had  just  been  riding  on  with  very  little  thought  of 
what  would  happen.  He  had  merely  been  enjoying 
himself;  no,  not  exactly  that.  There  were  too  many 
thorns  on  this  rose  d'amour  that  had  blossomed  and 
bloomed  in  his  soul,  or  brain,  or  breast,  or  some- 
where. 

"We  can't  go  on  like  this.  They  know  the  Star.'* 
He  spoke  half  to  her;  half  to  himself.  "Better  get 
down  here;  good  place  to  consider." 

His  thoughts  were  in  a  whirl,  as  he  helped  her 
down.    Near  by  were  camel  stalls.    He  led  the  way 


VARYING   FORTUNES  221 

to  one  and  fastened  the  Star  to  a  ring  in  the  wall. 
At  least  the  place  offered  a  temporary  refuge. 

"Do  you  see  anything  of  them  ?"  she  asked,  look- 
ing back. 

"No.    We're  safe  enough  for  now." 

He  felt  a  new  constraint.  The  situation  was 
anomalous.  What  were  they  doing  here,  anyway? 
His  heart  was  still  beating  fast. 

"Rather  ridiculous  to  come  back  like  this,  after 
having  parted  forever,  eh?"  he  remarked. 

She  looked  at  him  but  made  no  reply.  What  enig- 
matic eyes !  Apathy  on  her  part.  At  least,  it  seemed 
like  apathy. 

He  experienced  an  odd  irresolution.  Confound 
it,  she  acted  just  as  if  being  carried  off  like  this  was 
but  an  ordinary  and  commonplace  episode.  She  did 
not  seem  at  all  excited  or  disturbed,  or  exultant.  He 
wondered  what  she  did  feel. 

"Sorry  I  came  back  ?"  he  asked. 

He  forgot  she  had  inclined  her  figure  toward  him 
when  he  had  spoken  to  her  during  that  ride.  He 
only  remembered  that  she  was  going  to  that  palatial 
heuse.    Women  and  girls  are  changeable.    Perhaps 


222      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

she  had  become  reconciled  to  that  remarriage. 
That  "re."  How  he  hated  it  now!  Yes,  hated. 
He  didn't  dodge  the  issue.  He  met  it  fairly,  or  let 
it  hit  him.  He  resented  the  "re."  It  was  a  miser- 
able, despicable  little  word.  To  be  remarried — 
that's  what  she  had  been  going  to  do,  when  he  had 
intervened.  She  didn't  act  glad  that  he  had  done 
that.  She  was  silent,  thoughtful.  It  was  possible 
that  Light  of  Life  had  persuaded  her  to  make  the 
best  of  a  bad,  or  a  good,  bargain.  Out  of  the  strange- 
ness of  the  moment  a  superlatively  great  cynicism 
now  insinuated  itself.  It  began  to  shoot  up  and 
flourish  like  a  bamboo  in  a  tropical  clime. 

"I  saw  him,"  he  said. 

"Who?"  she  asked. 

"Him."  Drawing  himself  up.  "Amad."  He 
strove  to  speak  easily,  lightly,  but  in  a  back  chamber 
of  his  brain  was  still  that  picture — the  mandarah  at 
the  diamond  merchant's  house,  not  vacant,  as  the 
young  man  had  seen  it,  but  peopled  with  two — the 
old  man  and  her,  his  young  bride. 

"You  did  ?"    She  seemed  bewildered. 

"Yes,  I  worked  for  him." 

"I  don't  understand," 


VARYING   FORTUNES  223 

He  looked  at  her.  The  green  monster  sat  in  the 
little  chamber  in  the  back  of  his  brain  and  the  green 
monster  glowered  at  the  picture.  The  green  monster 
spoke ;  it  is  a  way  the  green  monster  has.  It  doesn't 
matter  whether  people  are  to  blame,  or  not.  It  is  a 
very  illogical  monster.    It  jumps  at  conclusions. 

"To  think  of  their  having  married  you  to  him. 
You!    Him!"  he  muttered. 

It  was  ungenerous.  He  knew  it,  but  he  couldn't 
help  it.  He  didn't  seem  to  have  such  perfect  con- 
trol over  himself  as  he  had  had  half  an  hour  or  so 
ago.     He  let  the  monster  growl. 

The  girl  started.  Then  her  eyes  flashed.  She 
seemed  to  awake.  Those  words,  perhaps,  stung 
her.  She  apparently  forgot  this  fellow  was  but  a 
mustahall,  a  nobody.  She  only  heard  a  voice  and 
resented  it — a  voice  that  seemed  to  say  that  she  had 
given  her  youth  for  gold,  even  to  one  such  as —  Her 
face  burned. 

"That  horrible  old  man!  You  think  that  I—" 
Breathlessly,  passionately.  "But  I  never  was! — ■ 
really ! — and  never  would  be." 

"What !"    The  word  rang  out. 

"Never!"  she  repeated.     "It  is  preposterous,  in- 


224      ALADDIN    FROM   BROADWAY 

credible !"  She  did  not  look  at  him.  She  did  not  see 
him.    It  was  as  if  he  were  not  there. 

"They  both  lied  to  me — Light  of  Life  and  he. 
His  daughter  had  just  died,  and  he  pretended — " 
Her  voice  died  away.  "I  was  to  take  her  place — the 
ceremony  was  to  be  a  mere  formality.  And  then — 
and  then — " 

He  listened  as  If  entranced.  He  could  not  move. 
"The  old  scoundrel !"  he  half  breathed. 

"I  drew  my  dagger.  I  think  I  even  laughed. 
It — It  was  so  preposterous.  And  then  he  di- 
vorced— " 

That  was  all.  All?  His  heart  was  hammering 
now.  He  felt  a  greater  emotion  than  when,  at  the 
critical  moment,  he  had  snatched  her  away  from 
them. 

"But — "  he  managed  to  say,  "you  were  riding 
back,  to  his  house?  You  had  not,  then,  made  up 
your  mind  to — ^to  make  the  best  of  it  ?'*  It  was  awk- 
wardly expressed,  he  knew. 

"Made  up  my  mind?"  The  sweet  lips  curved 
softly,  almost  mockingly.  "When  you  touched  my 
arm,  I  dropped  something." 

"Something?" 


VARYING   FORTUNES  225 

"A  vial." 

"A  vial?"  He  continued  to  look  at  her.  He  be- 
gan to  see  her  meaning.  That  straight  direct  look 
told  him  there  was  no  fear  in  it.  "By  Allah,"  he 
muttered  hoarsely.  "That — that  old  wretch !  And 
the  old  cat !"  He  meant  his  beloved  mother-in-law. 
The  girl  smiled  now — ^actually  smiled.  Or,  maybe  it 
was  only  the  ghost  of  a  smile.  Perhaps  his  vehe- 
mence appealed  to  her.  Or,  perhaps  she  wondered 
why  he  was  so  vehement  ? 

"And  to  think,"  burst  from  him,  "I  spared  him !" 

"You  mean,  you  had  him  in  your  power?" 

"Yes;  I  could  have  put  it  out  of  his  power  ever 
to  have  annoyed  you  again." 

"Killed  him  ?"  The  dark  eyes  were  on  him. 

"Yes.    Why  not?" 

"But  you  couldn't?" 

"He  was  old,  and  defenseless !" 

Defenseless?  She  stared  at  him.  The  word 
was  not  included  in  the  code  of  Mohammedan  ethics 
where  an  enemy  is  concerned.  Mohammedans  do 
not  spare.  ^ 

"You  are  sorry  I  didn't?"  he  demanded.  "You 
blame  me?" 


2^      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"No,  no." 

He  was  glad  of  that  His  "wife"  was  an  angel 
After  all  she  had  endured !  He  gazed  at  her  ador- 
ingly. The  old  green  monster  had  by  this  time  re- 
tired so  far  into  the  dark  chamber  that  he  seemed 
to  have  vanished.  An  odd,  almost  irresponsible  ex- 
hilaration succeeded  that  other  emotion. 

Not  Amad's  wife!  And  "never  had  been!"  The 
words  continued  to  vibrate  in  his  brain.  Did  he 
dream  ?  No,  it  was  no  dream.  But  he  mustn't  dwell 
on  it  too  long.  There  were  practical  matters  to  con- 
sider. Their  present  situation?  It  was  more  than 
precarious.  He  gazed  at  her  now  with  what  was  in- 
tended to  be  a  practical  look. 

"See  here,"  he  said.  "We've  got  to  get  out  of 
this — Damascus,  I  mean.  You  can't  stay  here  now, 
nor  can  I.  Tell  you  the  reason."  He  stopped ;  then 
reconsidered.  There  was  no  time  to  tell  her  that  now. 
He  had  to  formulate  plans,  or  to  go  back  to  those  he 
had  partially  formulated  before  something  had  hap- 
pened to  interrupt  the  mental  process  of  ways  and 
means.  "We've  got  to  get  out,"  he  repeated,  as  if 
to  emphasize  it  to  himself  as  well  as  to  her,  "but  the 
Star  is  too  well-known  and  we  can't  ride  up  to  the 


VARYING   FORTUNES  227 

gate,  or  one  of  the  exits.  By  Jove" —  did  she 
notice  he  had  said  Jove,  not  Allah  ? — "I've  got  it 
You  stay  here.  No  one  will  find  you.  And  I'll  go 
over  to  an  exit  near  by.  Maybe  we  can  get  out. 
Anyhow,  I'll  have  a  look  around  and  see  how  mat- 
ters stand." 

"But" — the  dark  eyes  lingered  on  him — "you 
mean  I  must  remain  here  alone?" 

"Only  for  a  few  moments." 

"Why  should  I  not  go  with  you?" 

"Wouldn't  do.    The  danger— " 

"Then  it  will  be  dangerous?" 

"Not  for  one,"  he  answered  hastily.  Her  eyes 
were  apprehensive.  Another  kind  of  thrill  shot 
through  him.  But  modesty  immediately  drove  it 
away.  Of  course,  she  would  be  apprehensive;  if 
he  didn't  come  back,  she  would  be  left  there  alone. 
That  would  not  be  agreeable — just  the  opposite. 

"Don't  you  worry,"  he  reassured  her.  "I'll  be 
back  in  a  few  minutes.  I  will  see  that  nothing  hap- 
pens to  me — for  your  sake,"  he  added  with  a  laugh. 

A  moment  the  sheer  beauty  of  her  eyes  held  him, 
then  he  tore  himself  away.  He  seemed  walking  on 
air.    Dangers  did  not  exist.    "Not  Amad's — not — " 


228      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

The  girl  watched  him  disappear  in  the  shadows  of 
the  low  structures  flanking  that  side  of  the  open 
space.  For  some  time  she  stood  motionless  like  a 
shadow  herself.  Then  she  moved  across  the  door- 
way to  see  better.  The  moments  passed.  How 
still  the  deserted  market  now !  No  one  was  in  sight. 
What  must  have  seemed  a  long  time  passed  as  she 
continued  to  gaze  in  the  direction  he  had  gone.  Now 
she  moved  a  little  way  in  that  direction  also. 

"A  few  moments,"  he  had  said.  Her  brows  drew 
together.  She  hesitated,  then  returned  to  the  stall. 
For  a  considerable  period  she  did  not  stir.  Behind 
her,  the  Star  munched  quietly  at  titbits  of  fodder 
he  found  on  the  ground.  No  sound  from  without. 
Only  that  same  dread  silence!  She  moved  once 
more  through  the  doorway  and  looked  toward  the 
exit  from  the  city,  or  where  she  imagined  it  must 
be.  A  smoldering  fire  seemed  to  burn  now  in  her 
veins.  She  could  not  stand  still.  She  ventured 
again  in  the  direction  of  the  gate,  or  exit — farther, 
this  time.  Still  she  did  not  see  him — ^this  adven- 
turer, bandit,  or  whatever  he  was, — only  no  holy 
dervish,  she  was  sure. 

She  ventured  farther ;  how  far  she  did  not  know. 


VARYING   FORTUNES  229 

Then  suddenly  she  realized,  or  realization  was 
brought  home  to  her.  She  heard  voices  behind  and 
looked  around.  A  spark! — a.  shealeh,  or  watch- 
man's torch!  She  would  have  retraced  her  steps 
hurriedly,  when  the  fellow  carrying  the  torch  began 
to  wave  it.  Ribbons  of  flame  played  in  the  air.  He 
and  those  with  him  saw  her  and,  for  the  moment, 
she  didn't  know  what  to  do.  She  could  not  get 
back  to  the  stall  now.  There  came  into  her  eyes  the 
look  of  a  hunted  wild  creature  as  she  gazed  upon 
these  people  drawing  near. 

"Quick !"  A  voice  at  her  very  ear  caused  her  to 
turn,  and  she  could  not  suppress  an  exclamation. 
It  was  he,  the  dervish.  He  had  returned  through  a 
narrow  street  leading  into  the  square.  His  face  was 
almost  stem ;  he  was  terribly  disappointed  on  her  ac- 
count. If  only  she  had  remained  where  he  had  left 
her,  he  might  easily  have  joined  her  when  these 
rioters,  or  looters,  had  gone  by.  He  had  come 
to  bring  her  good  news,  glorious  news.  There  were 
but  two  guards  at  the  gate,  and  one  of  the  two 
seemed  rather  overcome  with  Arab  whisky.  The 
others  had  probably  gone  a-looting.  Amad  had 
spread  the  alarm,  no  doubt,, by  this  time,  but  it  had 


230      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

not  yet  reached  this  quarter.  All  this  he  had  has- 
tened back  as  soon  as  he  could  to  tell  her.  They, 
two,  might  have  been  able  to  get  out  of  the  city 
by  this  gate.  But  now? — he  glanced  toward  the 
watchman  and  those  others. 

"Come!"  He  indicated  the  side  street.  They 
turned  and  darted  into  the  narrow  way.  It  was  the 
best  that  could  be  done. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   GRAVEYARD 

HE  soon  turned  into  an  open  doorway,  draw- 
ing her  after  him.  Before  them  the  narrow 
street  ended  in  a  pocket.  He  had  been  expecting 
it.  Streets  here — or  apologies  for  the  same — ^had 
a  habit  of  doing  that.  The  house  they  entered,  as 
well  as  others  in  that  district,  had  been  looted  and 
was  partially  destroyed.  Its  walls,  like  those  of 
many  of  the  poorer  class  of  Damascus  dwellings, 
were  of  mud  that  had  become  almost  as  hard  as 
brick,  or  the  damage  from  the  flames  would  have 
been  greater.  The  interior,  however,  had  been  fair- 
ly gutted  and  the  woodwork  charred.  A  stairway 
leading  to  the  low  second  story  looked  as  if  it 
would  hardly  stand,  but  up  this  the  dervish  went 
quickly,  motioning  her  to  follow.  She  did  so.  At 
the  top  he  closed  and  bolted  a  door,  then  stood 
listening.     There  was  a  possibility  the  man  with 

231 


232      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

the  torch  and  those  accompanying  him  had  not  ob- 
served them  enter. 

But  that  possibility  was  not  realized.  Soon  he 
heard  voices  near  the  entrance.  Some  one  expressed 
doubt  they  had  turned  in  here ;  some  one  else  insisted 
they  had.  That  some  one  else's  voice  caused  the 
dervish  to  start.  Those  tones  had  a  familiar  ring; 
he  thought  he  knew  them.  He  had  little  time  for 
speculation,  however,  for  the  fellows  below  had 
now  entered.  He  glanced  hastily  around  him,  noting 
that  the  room  was  small  and  that  a  narrow  slit  in 
the  wall  alone  served  for  a  window.  They  had 
not  greatly  improved  a  desperate  situation  by  turn- 
ing in  here;  the  pocket  had  apparently  been  ex- 
changed for  a  trap. 

The  young  man  regarded  the  girl  quickly.  He 
had  opportunity  for  only  a  few  words.  She  must 
now  act  as  he  would  tell  her.  These  fellows  would 
do  her  no  bodily  harm ;  the  presence  of  his  Nemesis, 
the  saddler,  among  them,  guaranteed  that ;  it  was  he 
they  desired  to  vent  their  holy  resentment  upon.  He 
feared  he  could  do  little  for  her  henceforth; 
he  strove  to  speak  steadily ;  he  would  not  let  her  see 
what  those  words  cost  him.    She  must  get  into  com- 


THE   GRAVEYARD  233 

munication  with  a  certain  Lord  Fitzgerald,  an  Eng- 
lishman, who  might  yet  be  in  Damascus.  If  that 
person  had  returned  to  England,  she  must  somehow 
get  word  to  him;  he  had  influence;  he  might  even 
be  able  to  set  the  international  machinery  in  motion 
in  her  behalf,  to  see  that  justice  was  done  her.  "He 
is  a  friend  of  mine,"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  "Tell 
him  that  you  are  the  wife  of  Jack — " 

He  got  no  further,  for  bending  closer  to  look  at 
her,  he  saw  that  she  seemed  not  to  be  listening  to 
him  and  a  half-groan  escaped  his  lips.  His  words 
had  apparently  meant  nothing  to  her.  Those  sounds 
below  had  drowned  the  whispered  injunction,  en- 
grossed her  attention.  From  the  street  in  front, 
too,  were  wafted  fragments  of  the  Khutbet  enneat, 
the  chant  the  pious  ones  sing  when  they  indulge  in 
the  ungentle  occupation  of  Christian  baiting.  The 
ominous  tones  constituted  a  weird  accompaniment 
to  the  voices  below.  He  had  no  time  to  repeat  his 
words,  for  the  fellows  were  on  the  stairs.  There 
seemed  little  he  could  do,  but  mechanically  he  picked 
up  a  three-legged  stool.  He  didn't  indulge  in  any 
inner  false  heroics.  In  the  story  books  he  would 
be  able  to  hold  the  stairway  and  emerge  victoriously 


«34      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

from  the  unequal  contest ;  in  real  life  he  knew  these 
affairs  turn  out  differently.  He  was  certainly  rather 
skeptical  at  the  moment  and  regarded  his  weapon 
of  defense  ruefully.  He  didn't  look  at  the  girl;  he 
was  afraid  the  sight  of  her  would  unnerve  him. 

The  fellows  were  at  the  door  now.  It  wouldn't 
intervene  long  between  him  and  them.  The  dervish 
swung  his  stool.  He  began  to  feel  a  little  more  in- 
terest. A  crash,  disproportionate  to  the  mere  yield- 
ing of  the  door,  ensued,  and  the  girl  closed  her  eyes. 
That  sound  was  like  the  crack  of  doom.  Dust  of 
plaster  mingled  with  the  smoke.  It  was  hard  to 
breathe.  Why  was  it  not  the  end  ?  Why  did  these 
people  not  enter?  A  moment  she  waited,  then 
looked  again,  to  gaze  out  this  time  into  an  open 
space. 

Had  a  karameh,  or  miracle,  been  performed? 
The  dervish  stood  as  surrounded  by  a  vapor.  That 
was  the  way  the  poor  venders  of  street  miracles 
looked  when  they  burned  a  little  perfumed  some- 
thing in  a  brazier  for  stage  effect.  But  this  vapor 
was  not  perfumed.  Quite  the  contrary!  And  this 
miracle  worker  had  waved  a  stool  instead  of  a  wand. 
Now  he  dropped  it ;  she  heard  him  laugh,  but  rather 


THE   GRAVEYARD  235 

fiercely.  Then  she  saw  some  one  clinging  to  the 
threshold  (the  stairs  seemed  to  have  disappeared) 
and  that  some  one  was  endeavoring  to  pull  himself 
up  to  the  floor  on  which  they  stood.  But  he  didn't 
He  indulged  instead  in  a  parabola — and  not  of  his 
own  choosing — to  the  ground  below.  That  some 
one  was  Sadi,  and  his  features  were  distorted  with 
rage ;  next  he  emitted  a  howl. 

The  dervish  might  have  used  the  heavy  stool  and 
so  removed  Sadi  from  his  sphere  of  bigotry  and 
usefulness,  or  uselessness,  forever ;  but  he  preferred 
the  less  sanguinary,  if  more  ignominious,  method  of 
the  boot.  It  seemed  to  give  better  vent  to  his  feel- 
ings. His  foot  had  swung  back  in  true  football 
fashion,  lunged  forward  like  a  thunderbolt,  and  the 
saddler  became  as  not.  That  howl  was  succeeded 
by  silence  from  him.  The  others,  however,  still 
made  a  noise;  no  doubt  they  had  suffered  a  few 
bruises  or  scratches,  when  the  stairway  avenged  the 
indignity  heaped  upon  it  and  that  erstwhile  more 
or  less  peaceful  home,  by  ceasing  to  perform  its 
wonted  functions  for  these  active  antagonists  of 
Christian  domesticity. 

The  young  man  was  now  busy  at  the  roof  and  the 


236      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY, 

stool  became  a  wrecking  implement.  It  isn't  hard 
to  wreck  a  Damascus  house,  especially  when 
there's  been  a  fire  to  weaken  the  tile  and  rafters. 
In  a  few  moments  the  dervish  had  made  an  open- 
ing, lifted  himself  through  it  and  reached  down  his 
hands  to  his  companion.  In  a  few  moments  more, 
having  descended  the  slanting  second  story  roof 
to  the  lower  one  of  an  outhouse,  they  easily  reached 
the  ground  and  stood  in  a  peaceful  and  pretty  apri- 
cot orchard.  He  breathed  deeply.  Here  was  an 
agreeable  transition.  It  was  as  if  they  had  at  last 
attained  the  enchanted  garden  that  went  with  the 
magical  horse. 

He  looked  at  his  princess,  no  sternness  in  his  eyes 
now.  He  forgot  she  had  disregarded  his  injunc- 
tion and  left  the  camel  stall,  or  if  he  didn't,  he  over- 
looked her  disobedience.  A  princess,  of  course, 
obeys  only  her  own  caprices.  He  looked  at  her 
long,  as  if  to  make  sure  she  was  really  and  truly 
there.  No  doubt  about  it! — and — yes! — that  faint 
reflected  light  from  the  sullen  yellowish  clouds 
showed  a  slight  smudge  on  her  cheek.  That,  too, 
was  a  variation  from  the  story  books.  Fancy  a 
princess  with  a  smudge !    The  young  man  chuckled. 


THE   GRAVEYARD  237 

He  rather  gloried  in  that  smudge.  He  didn't  tell 
her  about  it.  He  let  it  stay  there.  It  seemed  an 
antidote  to  imperiousness,  to  wave  away  stand- 
offishness,  to  draw  her  irresistibly,  whether  she  knew 
it  or  not,  just  a  shade  nearer  his  own  state  of  ir- 
responsible vagabondage.  Incidentally  he  experi- 
enced a  fine  feeling  of  comradeship.  The  only  diffi- 
culty was,  it  wouldn't,  and  couldn't,  last.  He  was 
walking  in  some  one  else's  garden,  which,  by  the 
way,  it  behooved  him  to  leave  as  quickly  as  possible ; 
he  was  a  trespasser  as  well  as  an  abductor,  and — 
well,  yes,  "horse  thief."  For  a  double-,  treble-,  or 
quadruple-dyed  criminal,  though,  he  was  fairly  con- 
tented— for  the  moment.  He  hugged  the  fleeting 
seconds,  in  lieu  of  her — only  one  can't,  linguistically 
hug  a  stately  young  princess! — to  one's  breast. 
They  were  to  him  what  small  coin  is  to  a  miser. 
They  were  the  ha'pence  and  farthings  of  bliss — 
good  enough  for  a  beggar. 

"What  were  you  saying  when  those  people  came 
up  the  stairs?"  she  asked  suddenly  as  they  walked 
rapidly  on. 

"Never  mind  now,"  he  answered,  looking  down 
at  her.     "Fortunately,  it  doesn't  matter." 


238      ALADDIN    FROM   BROADWAY 

"You  were  angry  with  me?"   A  little  haughtily. 

"Angry?   With  you?"     In  surprise. 

"Yes.  When  you  found  I  had  left  the  stall!  I 
could  see  it." 

"You  must  be  mistaken."  He  smiled  rather  friv- 
olously— at  the  smudge.  The  girl's  brows  drew  to- 
gether. 

"What" — abruptly — "did  you  discover  at  the 
exit?" 

"Not  much." 

"Many  guards?"' 

"No— a." 

"Fewer  than  you  expected  ?"  Her  voice  was  more 
imperious.  She  divined,  perhaps,  he  was  trying  to 
keep  something  from  her. 

"Maybe." 

"We  could  have  got  out?"  quickly. 

"Hard  to  tell  what  we  could  have  done,"  he  an- 
swered evasively.  "I — well,  I'm  no  prophet.  By 
Allah!"  His  voice  suddenly  changed. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Look!"    Hoarsely. 

She  gazed  back  in  the  direction  indicated.  Flames 
were  now  bursting  from  the  roof  of  the  house  they 


THE   GRAVEYARD  239 

had  just  left;  the  fellows  must  have  heaped  com- 
bustibles in  the  room  below  and  set  fire  to  them.  The 
girl  could  not  repress  a  shudder,  thinking  what 
might  have  been  their  fate,  but  there  was  a  steely 
look  in  the  young  man's  eyes.  His  fists  closed. 
"Devils!"  he  muttered. 

But  Sadi  ? — why  had  he  permitted  this  diabolical 
act  ?  He  had  recognized  the  dervish ;  he  must  have 
concluded  the  girl  with  him  was  the  bride-to-be  of 
his  wealthy  relative.  The  saddler  could  have  had 
no  desire  to  see  her  destroyed  in  this  awful  manner. 
Her  life  was  sacred  in  Sadi's  eyes,  at  least.  It  must 
be,  then,  the  saddler  did  not  know ;  that  his  fall  had 
temporarily  deprived  him  of  his  senses.  But  later? 
— He  would  recover;  he  would,  also,  probably  in- 
vestigate, and  his  search  would  show  that  his  worst 
fears  were  not  realized.    And  then  ? — 

It  behooved  them,  indeed,  to  get  away  from  here. 
Faster  now  he  urged  her  on.  Their  enchanted  gar- 
den— ominous  circumstance ! — ended  abruptly — ^at 
a  graveyard.  A  low  stone  fence  separated  them 
from  it.  He  helped  her  over  and  for  some  moments 
they  groped  and  stumbled  forward  as  best  they 
might.    He  did  not  ask  her  if  she  were  afraid  of 


240      ALADDIN   FROM    BROADWAY 

iblees,  or  other  dread  spirits  that  are  supposed  to 
haunt  the  cities  of  the  dead.  He  took  it  for  granted 
that  she  was  not.  It  was  no  time  to  think  of  the 
supernatural.  Yet  yonder?  What  were  theyf 
Phantoms  ?  They  seemed  to  bob  up  right  out  of  the 
earth  to  confront  them.  Some  ran  away.  One  or 
two  stayed.  The  girl  must  have  moved  close  to  her 
companion,  for  she  felt  his  hand  on  her  arm.  She 
was  frankly  glad,  too,  to  feel  the  warm  gripping 
fingers.  He,  at  any  rate,  was  flesh  and  blood. 
Those  other  ghostly  things?  One  of  them  now 
spoke. 

It — or  rather  he — asked  if  they,  too,  were  fugi- 
tives. The  girl  gave  a  quick  nervous  laugh;  it 
was  a  relief  to  hear  that  voice,  though  it  sounded 
querulous.  She  could  make  out  the  speaker  now; 
he  had  a  long  white  beard  and  seemed  to  resent 
their  coming.  The  dervish  answered.  Yes,  they, 
too,  were  fugitives.  Grumblings!  Not  only  from 
the  one,  but  from  the  others.  Grudging  phantoms ! 
They  apparently  wanted  the  graveyard  all  to  them- 
selves.   The  reason  soon  become  manifest. 

Had  the  newcomers  been  followed,  was  the  next 
question.     The  dervish  replied  in  the  affirmative. 


THE   GRAVEYARD  241 

Greater  perturbation!  Voices  mixed;  two  or  three 
talking  at  once,  excitedly,  though  in  low  tones.  Let 
this  couple  either  go  back,  or  walk  on.  They  must 
not  remain  here.  The  first-comers  wished  to  be 
left  alone;  they  had  their  women  folk  to  look  after. 
The  women  folk  came  up  and  gave  prima  facie  evi- 
dence there  were  women  folk.  Their  big  bold  eyes 
studied  the  girl.  The  dervish  studied  them,  and  as 
he  did  so,  enlightenment  came  to  him. 

Poor  stage  people — strolling  Hebrew  players! — 
that's  what  they  were.  On  the  ground  were  several 
bundles,  their  properties.  He  had  once  seen  them 
perform.  Ting!  ting!  He  heard  again  the  ood  and 
the  nay;  saw,  in  fancy,  the  little  cafe,  full  of 
smoke.  He  listened  to  the  shrill  voices,  the  odd 
dissonances.  These  women  were  the  descendants  of 
the  singing  girls,  or  almahs  of  the  First  Chronicles. 
Their  ancestors  had,  perhaps,  danced  for  King  Sol- 
omon. Now  their  masters,  or  auditors,  were  base 
Moslems. 

About  to  move  on,  the  dervish  hesitated.  His 
eye  again  turned  toward  the  bundles  and  then 
shifted  to  the  girl.  There  was  a  question  in  his 
look.    He  seemed  considering.    Also,  he  lingered — 


242      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

inexplicably  I — or  so  it  seemed  to  her.  He  even 
wasted  the  precious  moments  to  indulge  in  appar- 
ently superfluous  conversation-  It  was  certainly 
mysterious. 

"But  surely  they  will  not  harm  you?"  It  was 
more  a  statement  than  a  question,  and  he  did  not 
make  it  idly.  A  purpose  was  framing  in  his  mind. 
It  might  prove  feasible  if  the  girl  were  amenable. 
But,  of  course,  she  would  be.  She  would  see  the 
necessity  for  acceding  to  his  plan,  however  mad,  or 
rash,  it  might  seem  to  her  at  first.  Again  he  cast 
a  quick  glance  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  house 
they  had  left.  The  glow  from  the  fire  had  almost 
died  out.  That  meant  the  others  might  be  here  any 
moment.  He  scarcely  heard  the  old  man's  vehement 
answer, 

"Not  harm?"  Had  they,  the  poor  strollers,  not 
been  driven  from  their  lodgings?  And  from  pillar 
to  post?  Had  they  not  lost  many  of  their  pos- 
sessions ?  And  would  they  not  have  lost  their  lives, 
perhaps,  if  they  had  not  fled? 

"Perhaps  not,"  the  dervish  answered  hastily, 
though  reassuringly.  "They  may  remember  they 
will  want  more  entertainment  from  you  in  the  fu- 
ture.    Anyhow,"  with  a  quick  shift  of  tone,  "as 


THE   GRAVEYARD  ^4$ 

fugitives  should  help  fugitives,  I  have  a  slight  favor 
to  ask." 

"A  favor  ?  From  us  ?  God  in  Israel !  Why  should 
we  grant  favors?" 

"Because  it  will  be  good  policy,"  he  answered 
crisply.  As  he  spoke  he  once  more  gazed  quickly 
back.  "They  may  spare  you.  They  probably  will. 
But  as  for  me — "  He  shrugged.  "There  is  noth- 
ing they  wouldn't  like  to  do  with  me — hang,  draw 
and  quarter!  And  I  fancy,  too,  it  would  go  hard 
with  any  in  whose  company  I  am  found." 

"You  tell  us  that,  and  yet — ?"  The  patriarch 
fairly  gasped.    "Be  off!" 

"Yes,  be  off!"  exclaimed  the  others. 

"On  condition !"    He  got  to  it  at  last. 

The  patriarch  drew  in  his  breath  and  looked  at 
his  band.  It  was  not  difficult  to  read  his  thought. 
He  was  fortified  by  but  two  effeminate-looking 
youths  and  the  women.  And  this  fellow  appeared 
both  formidable  and  dangerous. 

"We  might  just  as  well  stay,  and  be  taken  here 
as  anywhere  else,"  the  dervish  went  on  coolly.  "Since 
misery  likes  company,  you  know!" 

"But  why  do  you  wish  to  bring  misfortune  upon 
us?"  half  wailed  the  old  man. 


244      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"I  do  not  wish  only — ^you  have  your  women  folk 
to  consider.  I  have  mine.  My  wife!"  His  voice 
took  on  a  certain  warmth.  "A  man  must  protect  his 
own.  And  she — she  belongs  to  me."  He  dared  say 
that,  and  with  a  fervor  that  sounded  real,  stepping 
closer  as  he  spoke.  The  girl  drew  slightly  away. 
The  wonderful  eyes  were  startled,  luminous,  a  little 
antagonistic.  He  might  even  have  placed  a  pro- 
prietary hand  on  her ;  he  looked  quite  capable  of  it. 

"What's  the  condition  ?"  The  patriarch  regarded 
him  sourly.    Anything  to  get  rid  of  a  madman ! 

The  dervish  stated  it  clearly,  concisely,  and  the 
girl  started  now.  What? — did  he  think,  then,  that 
she? — it  ufos  madness.  "Our  only  chance,"  he  said 
to  her  in  a  low  tone,  reading  her  thoughts.  The 
patriarch,  however,  protested  mightily. 

"As  if  we  had  not  already  been  sufficiently 
robbed !"    He  raised  his  hands  to  heaven. 

"But  this  will  not  be  robbery,"  he  insisted  in  a 
livelier  tone.  "We  pay.  See."  He  took  the  girl's 
hand  and  drew  a  ring  from  one  of  her  fingers.  She 
was  too  surprised  to  resist.  "For  your  sake !"  Sotto 
voce.  And  then,  aloud — "Look  at  it !"  The  patriarch 
did.    The  others  crowded  around.     "Hurry,"  said 


THE   GRAVEYARD  2.1.5 

the  dervish,  "or  it  will  be  too  late."  As  he  spoke,  he 
glanced  for  the  last  time  toward  the  apricot  orchard. 

"It  is  a  bargain,"  said  the  patriarch.  Which 
meant  that  the  stone  was  good. 

A  short  time  later,  an  old  man  and  a  boy  left  the 
cemetery  by  the  main  entrance  on  the  other  side. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AT  THE  GATE 

ON  outward  appearance  they  resembled  two 
romantic  types  that  had  not  yet  disappeared 
from  Mohammedan  civilization.  Aboo-Zeydee, 
poet-reciter,  and  his  pupils  were  figures  still  well 
known  in  certain  localities  where  conditions  were 
most  unchanging.  They  walked  as  if  in  a  hurry. 
Occasionally  the  seemingly  old  man  looked  at  his 
companion.  By  Allah !  Here  was  a  handsome  boy, 
almost  too  handsome.  A  youth's  bright  turban  set 
off  the  proud  oval  face  and  the  dark  romantic  eyes ; 
its  folds  also  concealed  her  hair.  Her  cloak  came 
just  below  the  knees  and  in  her  hand  she  carried 
the  customary  musical  instrument  of  the  class  to 
which  she  was  supposed  to  belong,  a  kanoon.  Their 
progress  attracted  no  especial  attention  from  any 
they  met  and,  arrived  at  the  gate,  the  old  man 
stepped  forward  boldly  as  if  taking  it  for  granted 

246 


AT   THE   GATE  247 

they  would  be  permitted  to  pass  out.  A  guard, 
however,  promptly  intervened. 

"Have  you  a  permit  to  leave?" 

"No." 

"Then  you  can't,"  said  the  guard  shortly. 

"But  we  have  an  engagement  in  the  country  to 
entertain  country  folk.  We  must."  The  old  man 
spoke  vigorously. 

"It  is  impossible." 

"This  is  extraordinary  in  our  case.  It  is  a  wed- 
ding we  are  to  attend.  We  can't  disappoint  them. 
You  can  see  who  we  are." 

"Yes,  I  can  see."  As  he  spoke  the  soldier's  eye 
swept  over  them.  The  girl  bore  his  gaze  with 
clear-eyed  steadiness,  though  she  now  held  back  a 
little  in  the  shadow.  "That's  a  fine-looking  boy  of 
yours.     Is  he  a  good  player?" 

"Of  course.    Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because— I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do."  Abruptly. 
The  fellow,  as  the  dervish  surmised,  had  been  drink- 
ing. His  expression  became  somewhat  good-na- 
tured. "We'll  stretch  orders  a  trifle  in  your  case, 
and  let  you  out — " 

"Thanks!"  Eagerly. 


248      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"That  is,"  added  the  fellow,  "if  you  pay  for  the 
privilege !" 

"Pay!  How  should  poor  reciters  be  able  to  pay, 
with  living  so  expensive!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  pay  in  piasters.  You  shall 
pay  with  a  song!  It's  tiresome  here."  Yawning. 
"And  we  need  a  little  entertainment  to  enliven  us. 
What  do  you  say?"  To  the  others  of  the  guard. 
"These  two  people  look  harmless  enough.  Shall  we 
let  them  out  for  a  song?"  The  others  assented, 
crowding  around.  They,  too,  seemed  to  have  been 
partaking  of  the  insidious  Arabic  beverage. 

"Make  it  a  tale,"  the  dervish  said  hastily,  "thougfi 
a  short  one,  for  we  shall  be  late  if  we  delay  here 
too  long." 

"No,  no;  it's  a  song  we  want.  And  not  from 
you,  old  graybeard.  We  don't  want  any  of  your 
croakings.     It's  the  boy  we  would  hear." 

"The  boy?"  Hastily.  "He  is  tired.  He— he  has 
been  working  hard  all  evening,  and  it  is  late.  I 
won't  have  him  sing  any  more.  It  might  spoil  his 
voice  for  the  wedding."  The  dervish  protested  ve- 
hemently. She,  sing  for  that  low  riff-raff  of  Tur- 
key soldiery?    Never!    It  would  be  impossible  for 


AT   THE   GATE  249 

her  to  do  it  Besides,  he  didn't  know  whether  she 
could  sing,  or  play.  He  hadn't  asked  her.  He  had 
relied  upon  the  costumes  serving  them  solely  as  a 
disguise  at  first.  Later,  if  need  be,  he  would  teach 
her  to  strum  on  a  few  strings,  while  he  reeled  off 
the  usual  high-flown  yams.  He  did  not  doubt  his 
ability  in  that  respect,  but  she? — 

"The  boy  is  new  to  the  art.  I  have  just  bought 
him  from  his  parents  as  an  apprentice,"  he  went  on 
hurriedly.  "You  will  have  to  excuse  him.  But  I 
have  a  fine  and  merry  mad  tale — " 

"The  evil  one  take  you  and  your  tales!"  cried 
the  guard  angrily.  "It's  the  boy  we  would  hear,  and 
I  tell  you  he  shall  give  us  a  song,  or — " 

A  few  wild  strident  chords  from  the  kanoon  in- 
terrupted. The  girl  stopped  further  discussion  by 
singing;  and  she  could  sing;  no  doubt  about  that. 
Not  a  large  voice,  but  one  with  a  thrill  in  it,  or  a  lilt 
like  a  bird's.  The  dervish  hardly  knew  what  she 
sang;  his  brain  for  the  moment  had  become  rather 
confused.  A  love  song,  of  course!  No  want  of 
passion,  either!  He  felt  in  a  half  dream  as  me- 
chanically he  squatted  a5c»(9-fashion  on  the  earth. 
His  hoarse  croakings — they  were  "croakings,"  in 


2SO      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

imitation  of  an  old  man,  and  a  rather  poor  imitation 
at  that — came  in  with  the  refrains.  He  did  not 
know  what  it  was  all  about,  but  he  made  his  voice 
tremble;  he  put  a  wonderful  tremolo  in  it.  That 
might  pass  for  passion;  it  sometimes  does.  A 
rose  and  a  nightingale! — that's  what  they  seemed 
to  him  at  that  moment.  He  had  to  croak  though 
in  order  not  to  be  left  out  of  it;  what  was  the  use 
of  pretending  he  was  an  aboo  if  he  didn't  croak, 
but  parenthetically,  between  his  own  occasional 
exertions,  he  received  an  impression  of  moonlight 
in  a  grove,  the  shimmering  spots,  the  traditional 
bird  with  a  thorn  against  its  breast,  or  something 
of  the  kind.  The  song  seemed  to  end  where  it 
ought  not;  it  stopped  on  something  minor  and 
unresolved.  But  it  was  the  end.  It  was  as  if  some 
one  had  hit  the  bird  with  a  rock. 

The  dervish  threw  off  the  glamour.  It  was  very 
wonderful,  at  least  to  him.  He  didn't  look  at  her 
now.  He  was  afraid  he  might  not  appear  gruff 
enough.  He  just  sprang  to  his  feet  and  started  for 
the  exit. 

"And  now  you've  had  your  song !"  he  said  to  them 
and  waved  an  imperious  hgtnd  toward  her.    Thus 


'He   felt  in  a  half  dream  as  mechanically  he  squatted 
aboo-Fashion  on   the   earth " 


AT   THE   GATE  251 

do  masters  peremptorily  order  around  the  boys 
whose  services  they  have  purchased  from  the  par- 
ents. His  gesture  said  bruskly:  "Hurry  up. 
We've  got  to  go.  No  more  fooling  around 
here !"  He  seemed  like  a  tyrant.  He  wanted  to  ap- 
pear so.  Nightingales — ^moonlight — love-throbs 
like  the  beating  of  the  sea — what  had  he,  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes  an  old  man,  to  do  with  them? 
"Come."  More  peremptorily.  Out  there  was  free- 
dom with  her!    And  paradise! 

Yes;  by  Allah,  the  genuine  bona-fide  paradise  of 
the  Bible.  It  occurred  to  him  all  of  a  sudden.  Think 
of  it!  Tramps  in  the  real  actual  Garden  of  Eden, 
located  indubitably  by  the  geographers  and  watered 
by  the  same  two  old  rivers.  For  the  moment  he  ex- 
perienced a  dizzy  sensation.     It  didn't  last. 

"Hold  on,"  said  the  guard.  Some  one  had  dashed 
up— or  given  a  farcical  semblance  of  dashing  up 
— on  horseback.  The  dervish  was  almost  out  of  the 
gate,  but  the  girl  was  yet  in.  The  soldiers  promptly 
intervened  between  her  and  that  (to  him)  irrefuta- 
ble Elysium.  He  came  back.  He  was  about  to  wax 
indignant,  but  he  changed  his  mind  for  the  mo- 
ment.    Instead,  he  looked  at  the  newcomer  and 


252      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

continued  to  look  at  him.  The  dyer!  Should  they 
bolt  for  the  exit?  Alas!  he  might  get  out,  though 
it  was  doubtful,  but  she —  Those  soldiers  had  guns 
and  they  weren't  blunderbusses,  either,  with  bar- 
rels about  twelve  feet  long,  inlaid  with  mother-of- 
pearl  and  other  useless,  non-sanguinary  ingredients. 
These  sons  of  the  desert  leaned  nonchalantly  and 
picturesquely  upon  weapons  quite  up-to-date.  They, 
themselves,  enacted  the  ornamental;  quite  proper 
blackguards  for  a  canvas,  they  appeared — Fortuny 
would  have  enjoyed  a  dab  at  them ;  but  their 
weapons  were  twentieth  century  and  serviceable.  It 
would  have  been  inconsistent,  as  well  as  inexpedient, 
for  a  fourteenth  century  (or  so)  aboo  and  his  pupil 
to  try  conclusions  with  a  twentieth  century  (or  so) 
later  brand  of  firearms.  It  would  be  like  anach- 
ronism. 

The  dervish  sighed — to  himself.  He  glanced  at 
the  girl  and  then,  sidewise,  toward  paradise.  That 
horseman  was  the  dread  angel  with  the  flaming 
sword.  The  dervish  waited,  not  patiently.  The 
conversation  seemed  to  him  now  inconsequential, 
trivial,  though  it  was  far  from  that. 

"More  orders,  I  suppose,"  grumbled  the  guard. 


AT   THE   GATE  253 

"Everybody  is  sending  them.  First,  it  is  the  chief 
magistrate  and  then  the  general  at  the  fortress." 

"This  is  from  the  chief  magistrate,"  said  the 
dyer,  handing  a  paper.  His  oleaginous  counte- 
nance, at  one  time  so  placid,  showed  new  and 
deeper  traces  of  worry.  As  if  he  had  not 
sufficiently  suffered  in  reputation  already  from  the 
actions  of  this  fellow  whom  he  had  introduced 
into  his  patron's  house,  without  this  new  and  cul- 
minating disaster!  Thus  spoke  his  dejected  mien. 
Truly  Allah  had  blinded  his  eyes,  thrown  dust  on 
the  heart  of  his  judgment  and  led  him  to  a  viper  of 
unparalleled  malignity  and  ingenious  audacity.  He 
was  having  a  very  busy  night ;  he  had  not  long  ago 
come  from  a  very  unpleasant  scene  between  Light 
of  Life  and  his  revered  patron.  The  latter  was 
getting  the  worst  of  it  when  the  dyer  had  left.  Now, 
at  the  remembrance  of  it,  the  satellite  wiped  the 
perspiration  from  his  brow.  His  grouchy  glance 
swept  toward  the  dervish. 

"So  it  is  thus  you  keep  watch,  making  merry 
with  idle  vagabonds?"  The  dyer  tried  to  pass 
along  some  of  the  ill-humor  he  had  endured  from 
others.    It  is  human  nature  to  do  so. 


254      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"What  harm — a  little  music  ?"  retorted  the  guard. 
"Besides,  we  have  kept  good  watch." 

"You  will  need  to,"  snapped  the  other,  shaking  a 
fat  and  admonitory  finger.    "Have  you  read  ?" 

"This  paper  states  that  some  scoundrel  of  a 
Christian  has  carried  off  the  bride-to-be  of  the  rich 
diamond  merchant,  Amad  Ahl-Masr." 

"It  is  even  true."  Bitterly.  The  girl  stood  far- 
ther back  in  the  shadow. 

"May  the  Compassionate  One  smite  him  guilty 
of  such  a  crime !"  muttered  the  dervish  in  the  back- 
ground. "May  he  restore  the  priceless  pearl  to  the 
bosom  of  the  rightful  owner." 

"A  good  prayer!"  said  the  guard  approvingly, 
but  the  dyer  seemed  not  to  hear. 

"In  the  message  from  the  magistrate  you  will  find 
full  instructions,"  he  said  to  the  soldier  importantly. 
"See  that  they  are  carried  out." 

"To  the  letter,"  answered  the  fellow. 

"And  look  to  yourselves !"  With  a  frown  in  the 
direction  of  the  vagabond-reciter  and  his  boy. 
"The  scoundrel  and  she  whom  he  has  carried  off 
are  still  in  the  city.  They  must  not  be  suffered  to 
leave.     Special  orders  have  been  despatched  to  all 


AT   THE   GATE  255 

the  gates  and  exits.  They  may  hide  while  it  is  dark, 
but  after  the  morning  prayer  we  will  have  them." 

"And  make  short  shift  of  the  fellow,"  observed 
the  guard  sympathetically. 

"Short?"  The  dyer's  fat  jaws  came  together 
with  a  crack.  He  seemed  biting  off  something.  "He 
not  only  stole  his  wife,  but  his  horse,  the  pride  of 
his  stable." 

"An  unpardonable  crime,  that  last,"  said  the  sol- 
dier. "A  man  might  sometimes  forgive  the  for- 
mer, but — " 

"You  will  find  the  description  of  them  here,"  ob- 
served the  dyer  with  another  frown.  "Also,  infor- 
mation about  the  reward.  Remember  my  patron  is 
a  man  of  much  influence  with  the  military  as  well 
as  with  the  civic  authorities." 

"We  shall  remember !"  And  no  doubt  the  fellow 
was  impressed. 

"May  Allah  restore — "again  muttered  the  poet- 
reciter,  but  this  time  in  a  low  tone  intended  only 
for  the  soldiers  near  at  hand. 

Again  the  dyer's  glance  swung  back  toward  the 
dervish  and  his  companion.  Did  he  know  her;  had 
he  ever  seen  her  unveiled?    It  was  unlikely.    Still 


256      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

he  was  a  frequent  visitor  to  Amad's  house.  He 
might  accidentally — or  those  eyes  ?  Women  do  not 
veil  their  eyes  and  her  eyes  would  not  be  easily  for- 
gotten. The  dervish  held  his  breath;  then  stole  a 
sidelong  look  at  the  girl.  She  stood  with  lashes 
down-bent.  Her  attitude  still  expressed  indifference. 
The  musical  instrument  trailed  from  her  fingers  to 
the  ground.  The  light  touched  her  hand;  it  was 
very  small — too  small.  And  so  fine  and  shapely! 
Why  did  the  dyer  not  say  something?  Probably 
but  a  second  or  two  passed,  yet  they  seemed  in- 
terminable. 

Suddenly  the  dyer  struck  his  nag  and,  bobbing 
up  and  down  like  a  man  not  accustomed  to  such 
strenuous  activities,  he  disappeared  in  the  night. 
Joy  followed  his  going.  As  he  vanished  like  an  ir- 
relevant hobgoblin,  the  dervish  turned  once  more  to 
the  girl.  He  tried  to  appear  testy  and  crusty,  as 
would  an  old  fellow  put  out.  But  in  fancy  he  could 
smell  the  odors  of  the  country.  Paradise!  The  Gar- 
des of  Eden!  or  El  Genneh,  according  to  the  Arabic 
— "a  flowering  place."  It  was  all  the  same.  A  rose, 
or  paradise,  by  any  name — 

"Well,  what  are  you  waiting  for?"  he  said. 


AT  THE  GATE  25Jr 

She  responded  with  alacrity.  More  than  that! 
She  arose  to  the  occasion,  and — "Coming,  master!" 
she  said,  though  with  mockery  in  dark  passionate 
eyes.  But  the  soldiers  still  did  not  make  way  for 
them,  and — 

"Here,  tell  your  fellows  to  let  us  go,"  the  dervish, 
yet  more  testily,  exclaimed  to  the  guard. 

"Sorry,"  said  the  guard  slowly,  and  somewhat 
sheepishly,  "but  I  can't." 

"Can't,  after — didn't  you  get  your  song?"  the 
dervish  demanded  in  just  anger.  His  voice  sounded 
warm,  but  a  chill  ran  over  him. 

"That  is  quite  true,  we  got  the  song,  and  if  I  had 
my  way — " 

"A  bargain's  a  bargain!'*   Energetically. 

"I  know,  but  this  paper — these  new  orders — I 
dare  not  disobey  them.  I  might  have  made  an  excep- 
tion before,  but  not  now." 

"What  does  the  paper  say?"  The  dervish  strove 
to  conceal  evidence  of  the  turbulent  emotions  that 
surged  through  him.  El  Grenneh? — was  it  receding 
from  them,  like  a  mirage? 

"This  order  countermands  all  others  and  decrees 
no  one  shall  leave  the  city  to-night.     This  applies 


258      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

to  all,  not  only  Christians.  Even  permits  that  have 
already  been  issued  are  not  to  be  recognized,  unless 
signed  by  no  less  a  person  than  the  governor  of 
the  province  himself." 

"Surely  that  is  tyranny — quite  needless — and  I 
again  demand — "  In  a  louder  voice.  But  he  knew 
it  would  not  avail.  He  had  a  dire  foreknowledge 
to  that  effect. 

"Spare  your  breath,"  said  the  soldier  coolly.  "As 
for  the  song,  here  are  a  few  piasters."  And  he 
tossed  several  coppers  on  the  ground.  But  the  der- 
vish let  them  lie  there. 

"A  soldier's  word — "  he  began  once  more.  Then 
bowed  his  head.  Of  what  avail  were  words?  The 
pulses  on  his  temples  were  drumming,  yet  he  had  to 
continue  to  act  a  part.  "A  broken  engagement? — 
What  will  they  think  of  me?     What?—" 

"One  moment,"  said  the  guard,  and  his  gaze  was 
bent  down  the  narrow  street,  where  now,  not  one 
but  a  number  of  horsemen,  preceded  by  two  fellows 
with  torches,  could  be  seen  approaching.  "Yonder, 
if  I  am  not  mistaken,  comes  he,  of  whom  we  were 
speaking." 

The  kanoon  fell  from  the  girl's  hand ;  the  pupils 


AT   THE  GATE  259 

of  her  eyes  seemed  suddenly  to  dilate,  and  the  color 
left  her  cheek.    Amad!   There  was  no  doubt  of  it. 

"Since  we  can  not  get  out — "  The  dervish  be- 
gan to  retreat. 

"Why  don't  you  stay  and  appeal  to  him?"  called 
out  the  guard.  "A  word  to  the  powers  that  be  from 
one  of  his  rank  and  position,  and  you  might — " 

"No,  no!"  Hastily.  "Why  should  we  bother 
one  so  illustrious,  and  at  such  a  time?  He  would 
be  too  concerned  in  his  own  great  affairs  to  be  in- 
terested in — "  The  dervish  did  not  finish  the  sen- 
tence. The  words  trailed  off  as  he  started  some- 
what hurriedly  from  the  exit,  with  the  girl  close 
at  his  heels. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

NEAR  THE  CITADEL 

HAD  not  the  guard  and  the  soldiers  been  espe- 
cially concerned  in  the  great  man's  approach, 
they  could  not  have  failed  to  note  that  somewhat 
undue  celerity  in  the  departure  of  the  peripatetic 
two.  The  dervish  displayed  a  precipitancy  rather 
out  of  keeping  with  his  age  and  dignity,  and  differ- 
ing decidedly  from  the  manner  of  his  approach.  His 
joints  now  did  not  seem  to  need  oiling.  He  had  to 
hurry,  and  as  it  was,  he  reached  the  shadow  of  an 
outjutting  house  none  too  soon.  The  diamond 
merchant,  and  those  with  him,  rode  up,  and  by,  even 
as  he  stepped  quickly  back,  drawing  the  girl  to  his 
side.  Like  a  yellow  mask  in  the  night,  they  saw 
Amad's  face  flash  past.  And  never  was  mask  set 
with  more  evil  expression,  while  concentrated  keen- 
ness, fury  and  diabolical  persistency  glowed  from 
the  eyes. 

r26o 


NEAR  THE   CITADEL  261 

The  dervish  felt  his  companion  shiver  as  if  she 
were  cold.  His  arm  was  before  her  now,  pressing 
her  close  to  the  wall,  for  the  shadow  in  front  of 
them  extended  but  a  little  way  out.  He  felt  her 
quick  breathing  and  said  something  in  a  low  whis- 
per— whether  words  of  encouragement,  passion,  or 
only  of  caution — he  did  not  know.  That  little  strip 
of  black !  It  was  their  only  protection  and  they  stole 
along  it  now,  keeping  as  near  as  possible  to  the  wall. 
From  the  direction  of  the  gate,  they  heard  Amad's 
voice,  loud,  rasping  and  disagreeable.  Now  an  angle 
of  wall  projected  several  feet,  intersecting  the  rib- 
bon of  black.  Though  sharp  eyes  from  afar  might 
see  them,  they  glided  quickly  around  it  and  con- 
tinued to  move  on.  Whither?  He  felt  he  was  but 
temporizing  with  the  inevitable,  at  best,  that  his 
efforts  were  puny,  ineffectual,  and — almost — ludi- 
crous !  He  could  move  only  just  so  far  in  any  given 
direction  and  then  he  had  to  stop. 

He  tried  to  think,  but  walking  now  with  her 
down-bent,  he  did  not  seem  to  be  able  to  marshal 
his  thoughts  to  any  purpose.  A  sense  of  his  own 
insufficiency  weighed  on  him  like  lead.  His  op- 
timism had  suffered  a  rude  shock.    It  really  mat- 


262      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY, 

tered  little  which  way  they  went,  since  the  exits 
and  gates  were  all  absolutely  closed  to  them  now. 
Only  by  means  of  a  special  permit  from  the  gover- 
nor himself,  could  they  get  out  of  the  city.  The 
governor?  Why,  that  fanatical  high  official  was  as 
far  removed  from  them  as  the  moon.  The  dervish 
could  as  well  hope  to  attain  to  the  one  as  the  other. 
Meanwhile — there  was  no  dodging  the  painful  fact 
— time  was  passing;  the  morn  would  come,  and  find 
them  here.  In  his  own  mind  he  faced  that  con- 
tingency squarely.  What  would  it  mean  for  them 
— now?  How  had  they  improved,  or  ameliorated, 
their  prospects?  Out  there,  these  togs  would  have 
served  them.  Those  who  sought  would  not  have 
found  them.  Inquiry  would  have  failed  to  locate  a 
holy  dervish  and  a  fair  young  girl.  They  would 
have  vanished  as  into  thin  air. 

But  here,  it  was  different.  Her  face  was  too  well- 
known  to  many  women  to  go  long  unrecognized. 
Could  she  hope  to  escape  Light  of  Life's  venomous 
eyes?  And  those  other  women?  How  they  would 
spy  and  watch  for  her!  Not  only  for  the  reward! 
Oh,  no;  not  only  for  that!  She  had  offended  the 
Mohammedan  sense  of  propriety,  that  bugaboo  as 


NEAR   THE   CITADEL  263 

big  as  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes!  They  would  neg- 
lect their  household  duties  to  avenge  that.  Cats  on 
the  trail?  Rather!  And  Light  of  Life  the  black 
one,  general  whipper-in!  What  chance  for  the 
quarry  ? 

The  girl  suddenly  looked  at  him  and  spoke.  Her 
quiet  voice  startled  him.  It  was  as  if  she  had  read 
his  thoughts.   "It  is  the  end." 

"Oh,  no ;  not  at  all,"  he  hastily  reassured  her,  en- 
deavoring to  make  his  tones  light.  "Not  at  all!" 
he  repeated  cheerily. 

"It  is."  No  fear  in  her  voice;  nor  did  her  lips 
tremble. 

"Pooh !"  He  threw  out  the  deprecatory  ejacula- 
tion with  a  short  laugh.  But  that  laugh,  somehow, 
didn't  seem  to  fit.  He  experienced  the  very  human 
desire  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  to  reassure  her  that 
way — though  a  very  irrational  and  illogical  way,  no 
doubt! — to  press  his  lips  to  those  long  sweeping 
lashes,  shading  the  deep  doubting  eyes,  to  drive 
trouble  from  the  sweet  proud  lips  with  masculine 
caresses,  the  way  the  leading  "heavies"  do  in  the 
plays,  center  of  stage.  Only  he  didn't  feel  a  right  to 
the  center  of  the  stage.  A  humiliating  consciousness 


264      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY] 

of  his  especial  eligibility  to  the  "back  row"  tempered 
sweet  temptation  with  reticence.  He  had  played  the 
game  and  lost.  He  had  not  made  good.  As  a 
husband  even  of  convenience,  he  was  a  fizzle.  As 
a  hero — ^he  rang  like  a  perforated  piaster.  "I  ex- 
pect we'd  better  try  some  of  the  other  exits,"  he 
said  with  attempted  enthusiasm.  But  it,  too,  rang 
as  if  it  had  a  hole  in  it.  It  was  a  counterfeit  at- 
tempt. How  could  it  be  otherwise,  with  those  now 
penetrating  eyes  of  the  girl  upon  him? 

"I  should  never  have  done  it,"  she  said  slowly, 
regretfully. 

"What?" 

"Married  you." 

"Very  sorry — to  have  disappointed  you — ^not  to 
have  come  up  to  your  expectations — "  Lucky  he 
hadn't  tried  the  stage  way ;  that — "Don't  worry,  my 
dear!"  dialogue.  "It'll  come  out  all  right,"  with 
incidental  business,  underscored  with  red  ink. 

"I  didn't  mean  exactly  that,"  she  interjected. 

"Thanks!    Awfully  good  of  you!" 

"You  heard  what  that  dyer  and  the  guard  said  at 
the  gate? — about  what  would  happen  to  you?" 

"Oh,  yes.    Yes,  indeed." 


NEAR   THE   CITADEL  265 

"Don't  you  mind  r 

"Do — "  He  was  about  to  say  it,  to  affix  a  "you/' 
but  he  didn't.  Brute !  To  think  of  himself,  at  such 
a  moment,  or  what  she  thought  of  him,  which  was 
the  same  thing.  Egotism  of  the  male!  Rank  self- 
ishness !    No  effacement  of  the  big  "I" — or  me ! 

"  'Short  shift' — ^that's  what  the  guard  said,"  she 
went  on,  almost  musingly. 

"Did  he?"    Absently. 

She  shot  a  quick  look  at  him.  Her  gaze  was  puz- 
zled. A  poseur?  No. 

"I  don't  like  to  think  that  it's  my  fault  that  you 
may  be — "  she  went  on,  in  the  least  unsteadily. 

"Your  fault  ?"  He  interrupted,  "You  mean  that 
'short  shift'  business  for  me?"  He  regarded  her 
eagerly,  but  her  look  was  only  steady,  deep  and 
troubled,  as  a  very  conscientious  person's  might  be. 
She  had  scruples,  a  fine  moral  sense.  He  under- 
stood very  well.  "Why,"  he  said  quickly,  reassur- 
ingly. He  could  reassure  her  on  this  point.  He  was 
glad  he  could  reassure  her  about  something.  "They'd 
make  that — whatever  they  mean  by  it — of  me,  any- 
way, if  they  could  get  me.  They  would  have,  even 
if  I'd  never  laid  eyes  on  you — never !"    Even  as  he 


2(^      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

spoke,  that  dread  contingency  smote  him  like  a 
tragedy.    Never  to  have  seen  her! 

"I — don't  understand,"  she  faltered. 

She  did — ^before  long.  He  gave  a  sudden  excla- 
mation. He  was  not  looking  at  her  now;  his  gaze 
had  passed  over  and  beyond  her. 

They  had  been  walking  through  a  comparatively 
quiet  neighborhood  for  a  turbulent  city,  and  had 
come  to  a  short  thoroughfare,  not  far  from  that  in- 
consequential structure  or  series  of  structures,  fanci- 
fully termed  the  citadel.  It  housed  soldiers,  or  those 
nondescripts  who  bore  arms;  hence,  by  a  stretch  of 
oriental  imagination,  the  occidental  nomenclature! 
But  it  was  not  the  "citadel"  which  concerned  the  der- 
vish; indeed,  he  was  at  the  moment  unaware  that, 
by  the  irony  of  fate,  he  had  walked  almost  straight 
into  the  lion's  mouth  and  taken  her  with  him.  His 
gaze  was  directed  in  another  quarter,  where,  under 
the  shadow  of  the  big  guns — if  there  were  any  in 
the  citadel — stood  a  low  building,  bearing  on  its 
front  some  kind  of  official  shield.  It  was  not  this 
structure,  however,  that  held  the  attention  of  the 
young  man.  An  unexpected  object  stood  in  front  of 
it.  How  it  ever  got  there,  through  the  narrow  and 


NEAR   THE   CITADEL  267 

tortuous  streets,  Allah  only  knew,  but  there  it  was, 
large,  aggressive,  self-assertive,  emitting  an  odor, 
offensive  no  doubt,  to  nostrils  accustomed  only  to  the 
more  delicate  aroma  of  musk  or  sandal-wood.  This 
object  itself,  though  so  unlooked  for,  the  dervish 
was  only  aware  of,  inasmuch  as  it  revealed  some- 
thing else.  In  front  of  the  shadowy  outlines  of  the 
mechanical  body  stood  a  man,  and  the  light  of  a  lamp 
shone  full  on  his  face.  He  seemed  to  be  examining 
the  mechanism  of  his  car  which  operation  caused 
him  to  squeeze  the  tighter  a  monocle  he  wore  in  his 
right  eye,  thereby  bringing  into  play  around  said  eye 
innumerable  little  wrinkles.  He  was  middle-aged, 
English,  and  had  on  a  traveling  suit,  topped  by  the 
customary  snug  little  cap  whose  popularity  reaches 
from  pauper  to  peer.  But  whether  he  had  just  come 
or  was  just  going  was  not  at  the  moment  apparent. 
A  trunk,  rugs  and  sundry  other  paraphernalia  of 
traveling  were  affixed  to,  and  deposited  in,  the  car, 
and  a  solicitous  native  chauffeur  who  went  with  the 
rest  of  the  luggage,  had  placed  himself  on  the  front 
seat.  The  Englishman  suddenly  straightened.  Ap- 
parently he  had  found  his  examination  not  alto- 
gether satisfactory. 


268      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"That  —  and  that  —  out  of  order  again,"  he  said 
in  technical  parlance.  "Well,  let  her  go,  anyhow. 
Maybe  she'll  carry  us  somewhere,  where  we'll  find 
somebody  who  knows  something."  Evidently  he  did 
not  entertain  a  high  opinion  of  his  driver's  mechan- 
ical ability.  The  dervish  moved  nearer.  They  were 
going  then.  The  chug!  chug!  now  sounded  fast, 
though  wheezily,  then  stopped  altogether.  The  Eng- 
lishman about  to  step  in,  paused.  "Perhaps  we  shall 
and  perhaps  we  shan't,"  he  muttered,  and  just  then 
the  dervish  made  his  presence  felt. 

"A  tale!"  he  exclaimed  loudly.  "Your  lordship 
seems  to  have  a  few  moments  to  spare.  Will  not 
your  lordship  graciously  deign  to  listen  ?" 

"Eh  ?"  The  Englishman  stared  at  the  imposing 
figure  of  the  old  man  who  thus  rather  startlingly 
accosted  him.  "How  the  deuce  do  you  know  that 
I ?" 

"It  is  a  trick  the  fellows  of  this  class  have 
learned,"  spoke  up  the  native  driver  in  fairly  good 
English.  "They  call  every  white  man,  *my  lord,' 
and  every  white  woman  'milady,'  to  drum  up  trade. 
It  works  well,  they  say,  especially  among  the 
women." 


NEAR   THE   CITADEL  269 

"Indeed?"  Languidly,  and  waving  the  aboo  from 
him.  "No,  I  don't  want  any  of  your  tales,  my  good 
fellow.  As  you  see,"  with  fine  sarcasm,  "we  are 
otherwise  occupied." 

"But  I  have  so  many  excellent  tales — so  many — '* 
persisted  the  fellow  eagerly.  "Romances  of  Antar 
and  Delemeh — you — you  must  stay  and  listen." 

"Evidently  I  must  stay,"  observed  his  lordship 
ironically,  "but  that  I  must  listen  to  your  tales,  my 
good  man,  is  not  so — eh?"  This  last  with  a  slight 
change  of  tone. 

"Fitzgerald!"  Whence  came  the  word?  From 
the  white  bearded  lips?  It  was  but  a  whisper,  a 
breath.  The  nobleman  shifted  his  position ;  he  even 
looked  around  him.  Of  course,  he  must  have  been 
mistaken,  though  he  would  have  sworn  that  ro- 
mance-reciter had  spoken  his  name — which  was 
manifestly  impossible,  however.  How  should  one 
of  the  vagabonds  of  the  deserts — ^wandering  min- 
strels, truly — ^know  him  by  name?  Had  some  one 
called  from  the  house  ?  He  glanced  in  that  direction 
and  then  toward  the  driver  of  the  car.  The  coun- 
tenance of  that  person — whom  his  lordship,  for  want 
of  some  one  better,  had  brought  with  him  from 


270      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

Cairo — showed  only  concern  for  the  car.  He  was 
fussing  at  some  part  of  the  mechanism  near  his 
feet.  Obviously,  he  had  not  heard  that  spoken  name 
which  seemed  to  float  from  nowhere.  Fitzgerald 
shrugged,  felt  in  his  pocket  and  tendered  something 
to  the  aboo,  who  now,  to  his  lordship's  astonishment, 
had  the  temerity  to  edge  closer,  as  if  he  actually 
wished  to  interpose  his  forward  and  objectionable 
person  between  the  departing  visitor  and  his  ma- 
chine. A  faint  flash  of  the  clear  blue  eye  behind  the 
monocle !    So  a  star  may  twinkle  on  a  frosty  night. 

"And  now,  take  yourself  off,  my  man!"  His 
lordship  could  dispose  in  light  and  airy  but  effective 
fashion  of  objectionable  people  when  he  wanted  to. 
"No  further  time  to  waste  on  you."  But  this  fel- 
low was  not  so  easily  got  rid  of.  He  lingered 
like  one  of  the  flies  of  Egypt  and  his  lordship's 
voice  became  more  strident :  "Don't  you  hear  when 
you're  spoken  to,  my  good — " 

Same  whisper !  New  innumerable  wrinkles  around 
the  monocle !  Chug !  chug !  The  motor  again  started 
and  stopped.  The  driver  threw  up  his  hands ;  then 
waited  for  his  master  to  tell  him  what  to  do.  Per- 
haps he  wondered  why  his  lordship  didn't  soundly 


NEAR  THE  CITADEL  271 

cufF  this  beggarly  story-reciter  and  send  him  about 
his  business.  Instead  his  lordship  actually  paused 
and  stroked  his  chin.  Of  what  was  his  lordship 
thinking?  The  driver  of  the  car  stirred  himself 
with  a  motion  as  near  impatience  as  one  of  his  class 
dared  indulge  in,  turning  his  head  sidewise  toward 
his  master.  The  latter's  fingers  had  lifted  mechan- 
ically from  chin  to  mustache.  Instead  of  stroking, 
he  was  now  twirling,  absently,  nonchalantly.  So  he 
might  have  stood  and  twirled,  leaning  against  the 
mantel  of  his  club  at  home,  his  expression  that  of  one 
whose  thoughts  might  be  anywhere  or  nowhere. 
Some  people  with  that  vacuous  expression  would 
be  credited  with  a  total  absence  of  thought.  Others, 
like  his  lordship,  thought  deepest  and  most  pro- 
foundly behind  a  facial  blank. 

"I  say" — ^his  lordship  bestirred  himself  as  from 
a  profound  apathy,  at  the  same  time  feeling  in  his 
coat — "must  have  left  my  cigar  case  in  my  room. 
Go  and  see — "    Calling  the  driver  by  name. 

"But  did  your  lordship  not  have  it  a  few  moments 
ago?"  asked  the  driver  in  surprise.  "I  thought  I 
saw  your  lordship  draw  it  out  and — " 

"Oh,  I  mean  the  other  one,  the  cigarette." 


272      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

The  driver  shrugged  inwardly.  He  did  not  un- 
derstand why  he  should  be  sent  for  a  cigarette  case 
when  the  car  needed  attention.  His  primitive  mind 
could  not  grasp  these  vagaries  of  conduct  on  his 
master's  part.  But  his  not  to  reason  why,  so  he  got 
out,  contenting  himself  with  a  sad  and  reproachful 
glance  toward  his  lordship  to  which,  however,  that 
person  remained  quite  oblivious.  He  was  still 
twirling.  Only  when  the  door  of  the  house  closed 
on  the  servant  did  his  fine  shapely  fingers  cease  that 
gentle  caressing  motion.  Then  suddenly  he  turned 
on  the  seeming  romance-reciter — 

"And  now  will  you  be  good  enough  to  ex- 
plain?" 

A  low  chuckle  answered.  "So  you  don't  remem- 
ber me?" 

"Who  the  dev— ?" 

The  girl  was  now  staring  at  them  both  in  amaze- 
ment. She  could  not  understand  unless  the  terrors 
of  that  night  had  turned  the  dervish's  brain,  or  un- 
less he  had  been  crazy  before.  Some  dervishes  go 
crazy  with  holiness.  But  her  dervish  did  not  seem 
that  t3rpe.  Besides,  crazy  men  do  not  chuckle  like 
that.    And  he  was  speaking  English — the  language 


NEAR   THE   CITADEL  273 

she  had  spoken  way  back  in  her  childhood  days  and 
later  at  the  mission  school — perfectly. 

"The  last  time  I  saw  your  lordship,  we  dined  to- 
gether." 

"What  the—?" 

"We  had — "  He  began  to  rattle  off  the  names  of 
dishes.  His  memory  was  very  good  in  this  respect. 
He  mentioned  French  names  of  viands  and  wines 
softly,  in  a  tense  whisper.  No  one  over  at  the  cit- 
adel must  hear.  That  frowning  fortress  might  look 
like  a  joke,  but  it  wasn't. 

His  lordship  stood  as  if  an  iota  of  emotion — ^the 
very  smallest,  tiniest  particle — was  surging  through 
his  brain.    "Stanton !"  he  said.    "Jack  Stanton !" 

"At  your  service!"     Again  that  low  chuckle. 

The  iota  seemed  to  increase,  not  greatly,  but  just 
perceptibly.     "By  Jove !"  said  his  lordship. 

"The  cigarette  case  is  not  there,  my  lord,"  the 
driver,  returning,  announced  firmly,  as  if  to  estab- 
lish beyond  dispute  this  momentous  fact.  At  the 
same  time  his  glance,  more  aggrieved,  swept  over  the 
persistent  pair.  "What!  Not  gone  yet?"  he  vo- 
ciferated indignantly.     "How  dare  you  continue  to 


274      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

annoy  his  lordship?"  Then  to  his  master:  "Your 
lordship  need  only  say  the  word  and  I  will  give 
them  the  pommeling  they  deserve — " 

His  lordship  yawned.  "Better  reserve  your 
strength  to  overhaul  it,"  indicating  the  car,  "at  once. 
So  you  will  make  yourself  more  useful.  You  should 
have  seen  to  it  before." 

"It  was  all  right  when  I  brought  it  here,"  an- 
swered the  man  rather  sullenly. 

"No  doubt!"  Skeptically.  "It  always  is,  only  it 
isn't.  How  long  will  it  take  you  to  put  the  thing  in 
order  ?" 

"Three-quarters  of  an  hour,  at  least.  Perhaps  an 
hour." 

"An  hour!  So  be  it.  No  longer!  Understand? 
As  for  you,"  regarding  the  tale-reciter,  "I've 
changed  my  mind.  You  may  reel  off  a  yarn  or  two." 
The  seeming  story-teller  burst  forth  into  a  flow  of 
grateful  and  appreciative  Arabic,  which  the  other 
dryly  Interrupted.     "Come,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I'm  blowed!"  said  the  native  driver  ex- 
plosively. He  had  picked  up  a  few  sailor  expres- 
sions and  a  good  deal  of  sailor  knowledge  at  Port 
Said.    The  trio  were  going  into  the  house.    Tales  at 


NEAR  THE   CITADEL  275 

that  hour!  H^  thought  Aw  master  mad.  Most  Eng- 
lishmen are.  First  he  wouldn't,  then  he  would. 
Tales,  indeed?  The  driver  began  to  tinker.  It  was 
a  cat-o'-nine-tails  he  would  like  to  have  bestowed 
upon  them. 


CHAPTER  XX 

AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE 

"•CIGARETTE,  Stanton?" 
V_><"Thanks."    Absently. 

They  found  themselves  now  in  a  comfortable  and 
rather  commodious  apartment  of  the  building;  the 
two  men  near  an  open  fireplace,  sans  fire — for  the 
night  was  warm — and  the  girl  in  a  shadowy  cor- 
ner. Jack  Stanton  removed  the  long  white  beard  of 
the  aboo,  at  the  same  time  glancing  restlessly  at  a 
clock  on  the  mantel. 

"That  time  right?"  he  asked,  indicating  the  hour 
— a  little  after  midnight. 

"As  near  right  as  any  clock  in  this  town,  where 
you  have  to  compute  God's  time  from  Allah's,"  re- 
plied the  other,  filling  two  glasses. 

"Like  reckoning  from  centigrade  to  Fahrenheit," 
said  the  American.  "But  I  stopped  trying  to  keep 
track  of  the  hours,  until  to-night,"  he  went  on  with 
a  quick  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  girl. 

276 


AN   OLD   ACQUAINTANCE         277 

The  other  noticed  that  look.  "Good-looking 
boy!"  he  observed  casually.  "Went  to — ^to  Mecca 
with  you?"    In  a  lower  tone. 

"No."    Shortly. 

"Recent  acquisition,  then  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Helps  carry  out  your  present  role,  to  trot  him 
along,  I  suppose  ?"  remarked  the  elder  man. 

Jack  Stanton  did  not  answer;  likewise  he  refused 
brandy  and  soda.  "Not  to-night.  Some  other 
time,"  he  murmured  absently. 

"Oh,  all  right."  Fitzgerald  smoked,  waiting  for 
the  other  to  speak,  but  for  several  moments  the 
younger  man  remained  silent.  There  was  an  in- 
dentation in  his  brow  that  indicated  thought,  and 
once  or  twice  he  glanced  toward  the  window  in 
front  of  which  stood  the  car,  as  if  an  occasional 
sound  from  that  direction  interested  him. 

"Where  were  you  going  just  now  ?"  he  asked  after 
that  pause. 

"Lebanon.  Moslem  troubles  in  Europe  have 
somewhat  upset  the  faithful.  Things  getting  rather 
warm  here.  Of  course  it  will  probably  blow  over 
soon.  Usually  does.     Still,  I'm  not  so  young  and 


278      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

adventuresome  as  I  was  once,  and  there's  a  chance 
of  history  repeating  itself.  Result,  another  bloody 
massacre;  not  mere  vaporizing  and  fireworks.  So 
far,  I  imagine,  it's  only  been  the  latter,  with  a  few 
native  Christians'  houses  burned,  etc.  To-morrow 
may  be  as  peaceful  as  a  Scotch  Sunday.  However, 
I've  begun  to  get  bored  or  prudent  in  my  old  age. 
You  see  I'm  the  only  white  chap  I  know  of,  except 
yourself — and  you  aren't  white,  any  more — left  in 
the  old  burg." 

"You  are  sure  you  can  leave,  then  ?"  quickly.  "You 
have  the  special  permit  to  do  so?" 

"Of  course."  Lifting  his  brows  superciliously. 
"You  don't  imagine,  my  dear  boy,  any  one  could 
keep  a  Briton  anywhere,  if  he  didn't  want  to  stay, 
do  you?" 

"I  know  they  can  keep  an  American  longer  than 
he  wishes  to  be  kept,"  replied  Stanton  ruefully. 
Whereupon  Fitzgerald  regarded  him  with  a  slight 
interrogation.  Stanton,  however,  only  looked  once 
more  restlessly  at  the  clock  and  then  toward  the 
window,  the  shade  of  which  was  drawn.  Outside, 
he  could  hear  a  faint  metallic  tapping.  "Fitzgerald," 
he  said  suddenly,  "I've  a  great  favor  to  ask." 


AN   OLD  ACQUAINTANCE         279 

"Ask  it."    Promptly. 

"Not  for  myself,  though !" 

"Why  not  for  yourself?"    Languidly. 

"One  condition  of  our  wager  was  that  I  should 
not  ask,  or  accept  help  from  any  white  man  while  in 
this  country.    So  far  I've  kept  to  that." 

"Indeed?  Speaking  of  which" — the  nobleman 
sipped  as  unconcernedly  as  if  he  were  in  the  grill 
room  of  the  Carleton,  instead  of  in  a  veritable  vor- 
tex of  hostile  seething  Mohammedanism — "did  you 
get  there,  as  your  countrymen  say?    To  Mecca?" 

"Yes,  and  no." 

"Very  lucid.    Perhaps  you'll  explain.'* 

"Between  you  and  me,  personally,  I  did.  Between 
us,  as  parties  of  the  wager,  I  didn't." 

"You  mean  you  didn't  get  the  proof — ^the  little 
prayer  book  my  countryman  buried  some  years  ago 
in  one  of  the  sacred  walls  of  the  holy  city?" 

"I  got  it,  and  lost  it.  I  found  it  all  right  and 
then,  in  a  thoughtless  moment,  left  it  behind  me  at 
a  place  where  I  changed  my  cloak.  Oversight,  or 
rank  carelessness,  you  might  call  it.  I — I  was  think- 
ing of  something  else."  Again  he  glanced  toward 
the  girl. 


28o      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

She  was  sitting  up  very  straight  now  and  seemed 
to  gaze  upon  the  two  as  from  a  great  distance.  Per- 
haps the  transition  for  her  was  too  extraordinary, 
too  unexpected,  to  permit  of  her  grasping  at  once 
all  the  circumstances  pertaining  to  it.  This  dervish 
— or  Jack  Stanton,  as  he  called  himself — sat  there 
like  a  total  stranger  to  her.  The  holy  man — the 
supposedly  pious  Moslem,  with  the  coat  of  many 
patches,  whom  the  dyer  had  found  in  the  court  of 
the  mosque — what  had  become  of  him?  Truly  he 
had  not  been  what  he  seemed,  but  that  he  should  be 
what  he  now  seemed — or  actually  was? —  It  was 
more  inexplicable  than  some  tale  or  fantasy  of  the 
imagination  fashioned  to  regale  a  sultan's  whim- 
sical mood!  She  forgot  her  costume,  the  turban, 
the  boy's  cloak,  though,  after  all,  the  last  was  not 
so  different  from  a  lady's  sebleh. 

"Thinking  of  something  else?"  Fitzgerald  re- 
peated the  other's  words.  "Something  more  im- 
portant than  the  wager  ?"  With  a  faint  inflection  of 
incredulity. 

"Infinitely  more  important,"  returned  Stanton, 
with  a  smile  which  momentarily  brightened  the 
strained  expression  of  his  countenance. 


AN   OLD   ACQUAINTANCE         281 

"Yet  your  entire  fortune  was  involved  in  that 
wager,  though  had  I  known  it  at  the  time — " 

"I  beg  your  pardon !"  The  young  man's  tone  was 
momentarily  more  formal.  Then  it  was  succeeded 
by  a  franker  expression,  "And  if  so?  Don't  men 
risk  their  all  every  day  on  the  Street  that  isn't 
Straight.  Dear  old  dad  left  me  fifty  thousand — 
dollars,  I  mean.  You  see  he  served  his  country  bet- 
ter than  himself.  I  was  training  with  the  wrong 
crowd,  the  little  brothers  of  the  rich,  and  as  long  as 
I  couldn't  hold  up  my  end,  I  thought  I  might  as  well 
take  a  long  shot."  He  arose  nervously  and  walked 
to  the  window.  Outside  now  was  silence.  He 
seemed  more  concerned  in  that  than  in  what  he  was 
saying  and  drew  the  curtain  aside.  "Pardon  me. 
Just  wanted  to  see  if  that  fellow  was  there.  Apt  to 
jump  their  jobs,  over  here,  when  things  don't  go 
just  right.  Don't  wish  to  appear  officious,"  apolo- 
getically, "but — "  He  broke  off;  there  was  a  nerv- 
ous glitter  in  his  eye  which  rather  belied  the  non- 
chalant bearing. 

"As  your  lordship  remarked  just  now,  the  sum 
was  rather  large.  But  you  remember  you  said  no 
American  had  ever  done  it!"     With  an  engaging 


282      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

smile.  "Believe  I  told  you  that  was  because  no 
American  had  ever  thought  it  worth  while  trying. 
Engaged  in  bigger  things,  or  some  such  boastful 
rot !  We'd  been  having  a  few,  you  remember.  And 
then,  somehow,  it  all  seemed  up  to  me.  Your  man- 
ner was  rather  English,  you  know,  old  chap."  Fitz- 
gerald said  nothing,  but  he  was  regarding  the  other 
attentively,  as  if  he  realized  in  some  degree  the 
secret  strain  his  visitor  labored  under.  "Besides,  I 
had  a  tip  from  myself  that  I  could  turn  the  trick," 
he  ended  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"Ah,  yes."  Fitzgerald  nodded.  "Your  father 
was  consul-general  in  a  Syrian  seaport  town  and  you 
were  born  and  bred  among  the  followers  of  Allah, 
I  believe?" 

"Exactly.  Knew  my  Koran  at  ten  years  of  age. 
Was  a  prodigy."  He  talked  though  he  seemed  to 
take  little  interest  in  his  words.  Quarter  after 
twelve  by  the  clock!  Only  a  quarter  of  an  hour  had 
passed,  and  twice  that  interval  must  elapse  before 
Fitzgerald  could  hope  to  be  off.  Half  an  hour  yet 
of  enforced  inactivity  I 

"Yes;  ran  away  from  school  to  loaf  in  the 
bazaars,"  he  muttered,  and  looked,  not  at  his  host, 


AN   OLD   ACQUAINTANCE         283 

but  beyond  him,  while  speaking.  He  had  planned  it 
out  now,  what  he  was  going  to  do,  and  what  she,  too, 
must  do.  "Made  friends  with  all  the  porters,  hawk- 
ers, the  fakirs  and  the  rest  of  that  crew  in  a  kid's 
paradise.  Picked  up  dialects  galore.  And  tales? 
Just  used  to  drink  them  in!  Then  dad  was  re- 
called— "  He  broke  off  abruptly.  What  irrel- 
evancy! Though  perhaps  it  had  helped  that  other 
train  of  thought,  the  more  serious  one.  He  knew 
now  very  clearly — too  clearly — his  own  course  of  ac- 
tion. It  was  not  altogether  a  pleasant  one,  but  that 
didn't  matter,  or  shouldn't.  He  turned  suddenly  to 
Fitzgerald  with  a  quick  energetic  movement  of  the 
body. 

"That  favor  I  spoke  of?"  he  said.  "I  want  you, 
when  you  leave  to-night,  to  take  a  passenger  with 
you." 

"Yourself?" 

"We'll— I'll  think  of  that,  later.  I  mean  this— 
my  assistant  here." 

"Your  boy?" 

"My  wife!" 

For  the  second  time  that  night,  the  nobleman  was 
betrayed  into  an  exhibition  of  emotion.  This  time  it 


284      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

wasn't  a  little  teeny-weeny  exhibition ;  he  gave  not  a 
barely  perceptible  movement,  but  a  plainly  perceptible 
one.  Indeed,  that  involuntary  movement  might  have 
been  characterized  as  a  start.  Lord  Fitzgerald 
started  palpably.  The  monocle  even  fell  from  his 
eye.  And  it  hadn't  done  that,  without  its  owner 
deliberately  intending  it  to  do  so,  for  years.  It  was 
a  very  misbehaved  monocle  on  this  occasion.  The 
nobleman  gathered  it  in  his  fingers  admonishingly, 
affixed  it  once  more  with  unusual  firmness,  and  then 
stared  persistently,  not  to  say  aggressively,  not  at 
the  speaker,  but  at  him,  or  her,  indicated  by  the 
speaker. 

He  saw  the  girl's  face  but  for  one  poignant  and 
fleeting  instant;  the  great  leather  chair  in  which  she 
sat  concealed  the  lithe  figure.  Then  he  didn't  see 
all  her  face,  but  only  the  profile.  The  dark  eyes  had 
met  his  with  a  look  like  that  in  the  eyes  of  a  too 
venturesome  deer  that  is  encountered  on  the  verge 
of  a  woody  place.  The  deer  would  have  disappeared 
into  the  semi-gloaming  and  the  wild  fragrant  depths. 
But  the  girl  could  not  do  that.  So  she  did  the  next 
best  thing  and  looked  away.  An  Englishman  can 
have  very  disconcerting  eyes,  especially  when  they 


AN   OLD   ACQUAINTANCE  285 

are  blue,  like  a  cold  sea.  It  was  too  shadowy  in 
the  corner  to  establish  the  fact  definitely,  but  in- 
visible fingers  seemed  to  be  dragging  rose-leaves 
across  that  part  of  the  pale  proud  face  yet  displayed 
to  the  free,  open,  questioning,  critical,  wondering, 
incredulous  gaze  of  the  peer  from  the  snug  little  isle. 
Amid  that  somewhat  supposititious  tint,  like  the 
tender  pink  of  an  afterglow,  the  girl's  lips — this, 
also,  did  not  appear  quite  a  positive  fact — seemed  a 
little  unsteady.  Maybe,  too,  her  breast  moved  and 
she  trembled — she  had  had  enough  to  disturb  her — 
but  if  so,  the  chair  (good  old  English,  from  Staple, 
the  universal  furnisher — English  sitting-rooms  pro- 
vided anywhere  on  the  globe!)  concealed  the  fact. 
Those  cavernous  depths  of  leather  were  calculated 
to  hide,  conceal  or  ameliorate  any  evidence  of  un- 
due sensitiveness,  thrill,  or  excitation  of  feeling  on 
the  part  of  any  one.  That  was  because  it  was  a 
British  chair  in  a  British  sitting-room.  The  turban 
looked  piquant  enough,  in  that  austere  setting,  but 
she  was  not  of  the  piquant  order. 

Fitzgerald  yawned — out  of  revenge  for  the  start 
he  had  been  betrayed  into.  The  window-pane  in 
his  eye  was  now  like  any  other  window-pane,  cairn 


286      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

and  immovable.  It  had  recovered  its  wonted  im- 
passiveness.  It  was  glassy  (ought  to  be!)  and  re- 
flected objects  on  its  outer  surface.  He  who  looked 
into  it,  or  attempted  to  do  so,  saw  only  these  super- 
ficial reflections.  Stanton  got  up  and  crossed  to  the 
big  chair. 

"Mind  waiting  here  a  moment  ?"  he  asked  softly. 
"There's  something  I'd  like  to  say  to  his  lordship 
privately." 

She  did  not  answer;  his  hand  trailed  over  the 
back  of  the  luxurious  leather,  touched  caressingly, 
though  swiftly,  the  girl's  cloak,  then  he  went  out. 
Still  she  did  not  move ;  that  chair,  like  a  great  black 
sarcophagus,  seemed  to  have  swallowed  her. 

Jack  Stanton  returned  alone  to  the  room  where 
she  was.  Fitzgerald  had  gone  out  to  superintend 
and  hasten,  if  possible,  the  operations  of  the  native 
driver.  The  young  man  now  spoke  cheerfully.  It 
was  all  arranged.  Everything  had  turned  out 
beautifully.  Couldn't  be  better!  He  had  told  his 
lordship  a  little  something  about  her  history  and 
his  lordship  had  committed  himself  unqualifiedly 
to  her  cause.  Fitzgerald  had  expressed  an  opinion 
about  Amad,  and  Mohammedans  in  general,  and  it 


AN   OLD   ACQUAINTANCE         287 

was  not  a  flattering  one.  The  nobleman's  presence 
was  most  opportune;  it  was  providential;  he  would 
save  her. 

The  young  man  paused  to  look  at  her  now,  a  cer- 
tain exhilaration  in  his  gaze.  He  had  a  few  mo- 
ments to  spare ;  Fitzgerald  had  promised  to  toot  the 
horn  the  moment  the  car  was  ready.  The  girl  had 
listened  quietly  with  strange  bright  lights  in  the 
deep  dark  eyes,  but  she  had  answered  nothing;  she 
had  not  demurred.  How  could  she?  She  had  to 
leave  the  city  that  night  without  fail,  and  here  was  a 
way,  a  safe  one. 

As  Fitzgerald's  personal  servant,  or  Arab  boy — 
his  own  had  deserted  him  at  the  first  talk  of  trouble 
— no  one  would  question  her  presence  in  the  car, 
Stanton  again  went  on.  The  nobleman's  permit  read : 
"His  lordship  So  and  So,  etc.,  accompanied  by  his 
servants,"  and  it  was  signed  by  the  governor  him- 
self. The  gates  would  fly  open  before  it,  or  the 
soldiers,  guarding  the  exits,  would  step  aside  like 
magic  at  sight  of  the  name  of  the  high  dignitary. 

After  all,  that  costume  she  wore  would  serve 
some  purpose,  he  remarked  with  an  attempt  at  joc- 
ularity, although  not  the  purpose  he  had  expected. 


288      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

Not  theirs  to  be  two  vagabonds  of  the  highway,  to 
sing  or  dance  their  way  along,  in  right  merry  ro- 
mantic fashion !  She  had  played  and  sung  only  one 
song,  but  he  would  remember  it.  Of  course  he  was 
sorry  she  had  to  go  as  a  servant,  but  it  would  only 
be  for  a  very  short  time.  Besides,  empresses  as  well 
as  princesses  (playfully)  had  escaped  from  palaces, 
or  cities,  in  humble  disguise.  Only  the  last  century 
one  of  the  former  had  been  glad  to  flee  with  a  den- 
tist. She,  his  princess  of  his  thousand  and  second 
night  (with  a  laugh)  was  at  last  fleeing  with  a  peer 
of  the  realm.  Said  peer  had  also  kindly  promised 
to  entrust  her  to  the  missionaries  upon  reaching 
the  seaport  town  about  to-morrow  night.  Those 
missionairies  would  never  give  her  up  now;  her 
safety  was  assured  with  them.  She  would  have  a 
long  run,  but  it  would  be  a  pleasant  one,  through 
a  delightful  country,  after  a  fine  exhilarating  climb 
among  the  Biblical  cedars. 

His  eyes  had  glowed  though  he  did  not  feel  glad, 
in  one  way,  as  he  told  her  all  this. 

"You — ^you,  too —  It  is  providential  for  you, 
also,"  she  said.  She  was  standing  near  him  now, 
very  near, 


AN  OLD   ACQUAINTANCE         289 

"Yes,  of  course."  His  tones  were  practical  and 
matter-of-fact.  No  use  of  calling  her  attention  to 
the  impracticability  of  his  accompanying  them!  He. 
— the  romance-reciter  would  only  emphasize  by  his 
presence  the  danger  of  their  detecting  her.  With 
so  many  things  to  think  of  it  had  not  yet  occurred  to 
her  that  it  might  be  difficult  to  account  for  a  ro- 
mance-reciter in  the  car.  Besides  he  had  other  rea- 
sons for  wishing  to  remain — reasons  that  he  had 
communicated  to  Lord  Fitzgerald.  That  last  per- 
son had  called  him  a  madman  and  bestowed  upon 
him  a  few  other  friendly,  unflattering  epithets — but 
never  mind!  Jack  Stanton  always  went  ahead  in 
his  own  way. 

"Of  course,"  he  repeated,  this  time  more  absently. 
He  was  striving  not  to  be  too  inordinately  cognizant 
of  those  wonderful  eyes  and  the  sweet  enticing  lips. 
Never  had  the  former  seemed  so  wonderful  or  the 
latter  so  sweet  as  now.  They  seemed  to  sing  not  of 
El  Genneh  but  El  Genseh,  lost,  the  garden  unat- 
tained.  He  felt  a  sudden  heart  hunger,  something 
sharper  and  keener,  even,  than  that  other  appetite  a 
healthy  young  pilgrim  may  develop  in  the  barren 
waste  places,  and  looked  away.    "Mighty  lucky !"  he 


290      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

murmured  in  what  were  intended  to  be  accents  of 
blithe  satisfaction. 

She  was  regarding  him  in  a  troubled  way.  "Are 
there  any  others  in  Damascus  who  know  what  I  do 
now?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

"Maybe.  One  or  two."  Indifferently.  He  was 
not  thinking  of  them  now. 

"And  that  you  have  been  to  Mecca?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

She  stood  very  straight  and  still  as  if  thinking. 
"You  should  have  told  me  how  necessary  it  was  for 
you  to"  leave  the  city,"  she  remonstrated  gently  with 
him  at  length. 

"Not  worth  bothering  about!"  he  murmured 
rather  weakly. 

The  dark  brows  drew  together  slightly.  "You 
should  have  told  me — ^you  should,"  she  repeated, 
with  a  touch  of  her  old  imperiousness.  "I  did  not, 
of  course,  realize  all  it  meant  to  you,  when  I  asked 
you  that — what  I  did,  at  my  house,"  she  went  on 
rather  hurriedly.  "I  see  now  all — all  that  it  did 
mean." 

He  tried  to  think  of  an  answer.  Just  the  adequate 
one  wasn't  forthcoming.  "Don't  think  of  it!"  he 
compromised  by  saying. 


AN   OLD   ACQUAINTANCE         291 

"You — you  even  once  let  me  say  you  might  be  a 
coward,",  she  challenged  him. 

"Did  I?  Maybe,  under  certain  circumstances,  I 
might—" 

"It  was  brave ! — and — and  chivalrous !"  the  flash- 
ing red  lips  said.  And  the  wonderful  eyes  seemed 
to  repeat  the  words. 

It  quite  took  his  breath  away.  He  shifted.  Also, 
he  flushed  painfully.  And  yet  she  spoke  as  if  not 
to  him,  but  to  herself.  He  might  have,  at  that  mo- 
ment, been  very  distant  from  her.  She  was  not 
bombarding  him  with  open  flattery  or  crude  praise. 
At  least,  she  was  not  intending  to.  Indeed,  she 
seemed  scarcely  to  see  him. 

"Though  why — ?"  The  dark  eyes  still  looked  at 
him  and  yet  beyond.  Her  brow  was  perplexed. 
"Why  should  you,  afterward — ?"  She  paused.  She 
did  look  at  him  now.  Disconcerting  depths  of  ques- 
tioning eyes! 

"Why?"  He  understood  what  she  meant.  Why 
should  he  have  lingered  in  Damascus,  afterward? 
He  might  have  got  out  before  the  uprising.  At 
least,  he  might  have  made  the  attempt.  Instead,  he 
had  lingered,  inexplicably,  foolishly — according  to 
the  point  of  view.     "Why?"     The  bright  turban 


292      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

danced  before  his  eyes.  Anomalous  little  turban! 
Framing  not  a  boy's  but  a  girl's  lips — a  girl's  eyes ! 
That  lad's  cloak,  too! — it  seemed  to  mock  him; 
f  utilely  to  attempt  to  deceive  him — him  I  He  smiled 
scoffingly.  Again  he  heard  the  nightingale's  song — 
he  stepped  toward  her. 

"Why?"  The  word  reiterated  like  a  thunder- 
ous echo  from  a  great  mountainside.  Almost  had 
he  answered  her,  not  discreetly,  circumspectly,  but 
madly,  passionately;  almost  had  he  told  her — 
sweeping  her  to  him  close! — close! — ^when — 

Honk!  honk!  resounded  outside.  The  horrible 
squawk  froze  the  words  on  his  lips.  What  sixty  or 
seventy  horse-power  crow  had  alighted  in  his  para- 
dise? His  arms  fell  to  his  side.  He  smiled  rather 
feebly.  Then  he  side-stepped.  The  archaic  wild 
dervish  vanished;  the  irresponsible  nomad  receded. 
The  gentleman — an  artificial  production,  perhaps, 
but  useful  on  occasions — looked  out  of  his  eyes. 

"Time  to  go,"  he  said  quietly. 

Honk!  honk! 

Stanton  winced.  "Why  the  deuce  doesn't  Fitz- 
gerald get  one  of  those  Gabriel  trumpets?"  he  mut- 
tered. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  BRAZIER 

WELL,  she  was  gone.  The  car  had  whirled 
away.  And  only  at  the  last  moment  had 
she  suddenly  realized  that  Jack  Stanton,  alias  the 
dervish,  did  not  intend  to  accompany  them.  Per- 
haps, too,  at  the  same  moment  there  may  have  oc- 
curred to  her  the  reason  thereof,  or  one  of  the  rea- 
sons why  he  did  not  go.  Standing  in  the  shadow 
on  the  other  side  of  the  walk,  so  as  not  to  seem  too 
conspicuously  interested  in  the  proceedings,  should 
any  passers-by  approach,  the  dervish  saw  the  girl 
start  as  the  driver  closed  the  doors  of  the  car.  He 
saw,  too,  that  involuntarily  she  half  arose.  But 
at  the  same  instant  the  driver  reached  forward,  and 
the  car,  under  his  none  too  skilful  manipulation, 
had  literally  leaped  forward.  She  looked  around; 
an  instant  his  strained  gaze  received  the  impression 
of  a  white  face  and  startled  eyes,  then  the  car  turned 
a  corner. 

293 


294      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

How  long  ago  was  that  ?    A  minute,  or  five  min- 
utes?   Or  ten?    At  any  rate,  there  was  no  use  in 
standing  there  any  longer  and  slowly  he  turned 
away.     Alone!     Well,  the  sensation  of  loneliness 
should  not  be  a  novel  one  to  a  man  who  had  slept 
nights  and  nights  on  the  sands.     But  even  the  soli 
tude  of  the  desert  was  not  like  unto  this  solitu  ' 
However,  nothing  gained  by  thinking  of  it!     i; 
squared  his  shoulders  and  marched  on.     Then  he 
stopped  once  more,  overwhelmed  by  something  he 
hadn't  thought  of  before. 

He  must  be  sure — know — ^know  to  a  certainty, 
she  had  actually  been  able  to  leave  the  city,  that  she 
was  out  there,  at  this  moment,  in  the  Garden  of 
Eden,  speeding  away  with  another.  There  was 
a  possibility  that  the  motor  might  have  broken  down 
once  more,  or — or — that  some  other  unforeseen  mis- 
fortune had  arisen. 

He  accelerated  his  pace  to  the  nearest  exit,  the 
one  the  nobleman  had  said  he  would  leave  by. 
There,  his  half  fears  were  at  once  alleviated.  The 
car  had  gone  out,  some  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  ago. 
She  was  safe! — safe!  No  doubt  of  it.  The  words 
rang  through  his  brain.     Amad  could  never  again 


THE   BRAZIER  295 

reach  her,  to  persecute  her.  She  was  beyond  his 
power  and  machinations.    Allah  be  praised! 

"Ten  or  fifteen  minutes  ago!"  That  meant  they 
were  miles  from  the  city  wall  by  now,  and  going 
fast!  Right  through,  or  across,  the  mythical  place 
of  primeval  bliss,  the  original  seat  of  this  sometime 
joyous  world.  And  on  a  comparatively  virgin  road 
for  motorists !  No  constables  to  stop  them ;  no  one 
to  arrest  them  for  speeding;  no  glass  strewn  on  the 
way.  Paradise  in  that  respect  is  still  paradise.  An 
up-to-date  one!  He  looked  out  over  the  blissful 
prospect.  Not  much  to  see.  Too  dark !  But  he  got 
a  whiff  of  the  country — those  nice  smells  that  are 
the  lineal  descendants  of  the  ambrosial  odors  of 
the  poets.  He  could — and  did — take  a  good  sniff 
of  them.  It  was  the  next  best  thing  to  being  in 
paradise  himself.  It  was  probably  as  near  as  he 
would  get  to  it  for  some  time.  He  had  business, 
for  the  present,  in  the  "other  place,"  or  back  there 
in  the  city  which  in  some  respects  might  remind  one 
of  the  other  place. 

So  he  turned  away,  after  murmuring  something — 
for  the  benefit  of  the  soldiers  he  had  questioned — • 
about  canines  of  Englishmen  who  went  away  and 


296      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAYi 

forgot  lo  reimburse  poor  romance-reciters  they  had 
employed  for  the  entertainment  of  guests.  He  voiced 
this  pretext  with  an  attempt  at  woeful  accents. 
"Gone!"  He  strove  to  wail,  but  it  was  not  easy, 
with  his  heart  athrill.  He  retreated  quickly  from 
the  neighborhood  now,  plunging  straight  into  the 
heart  of  the  city.  Overhead  the  clouds  were  darker ; 
that  sickly  glow  was  gone.  Had  the  fanatics  wearied 
of  their  work?  The  city,  too,  seemed  quieter,  for 
the  moment,  though  it  might  be  but  the  quiet  before 
another  storm.  At  any  rate,  he  felt  safe  enough. 
His  now  was  the  assurance  of  the  faithful  (tight- 
rope walkers  into  heaven)  who,  by  faith,  are  sup- 
posed to  be  able  to  cross  Es  Sirat,  that  bridge  finer 
than  a  hair  and  sharper  than  a  sword,  spanning 
Gehenna,  the  Arabian  pit.  He  did  not  at  the 
moment  conceive  of  danger  to  himself.  Why  should 
he?  As  a  romance-reciter,  no  one  would  question 
him.  Her,  they  might  have  recognized,  but  him, 
and  alone,  they  would  not  know ;  he  could  carry  out 
the  role  successfully  unless? — 

A  sudden  misgiving  disturbed  his  aplomb.  The 
strolling  players  might  tell,  under  certain  circum- 
stances, how  a  mad  reckless  fellow  had  forced  those 


THE   BRAZIER  297 

costumes  from  tfiem.  For  a  moment  his  figurative 
bridge  wavered  and  wobbled.  Then  he  came  once 
more  to  a  balance.  He  even  shrugged  fatalistically. 
He  had  to  take  that  risk.  No  way  of  getting  arouiid 
it!  Dismissing  consideration  of  unpleasant  and 
disagreeable  contingencies  for  pleasant  and  agree- 
able reveries,  he  went  on.  He  let  the  future  take 
care  of  itself,  it  was  the  past  now  that  claimed  his 
thoughts — if  a  period  of  forty-eight  hours  or  so 
may  be  dignified  by  the  epochal  word.  But  it  was 
the  past  for  him.  All  the  rest  did  not  seem  to 
matter.  It  was  irrelevant,  trifling  and  could  b^  dis- 
missed with  a  snap  of  the  fingers. 

An  impression  he  had  received  that  day  in  front  of 
the  pastry-shop  and  which  he  had  thought  no  more 
about,  recurred  to  him  now,  oddly  and  forcibly.  She 
did  not  look  or  seem  like  one  of  Mohammedan  par- 
entage. So  instinct  had  whispered  when  he  had 
held  her  a  few  palpitating  seconds  in  his  arms.  She 
was  too  fine,  subtle,  poetic,  romantic — too  every- 
thing that  doesn't  enter  into  the  coarser  fiber  and 
make-up  of  the  woman  or  girl  of  that  country  and 
faith.  For  the  first  time  he  found  himself  actually 
pondering  thereon,  though  somewhat  laboriously. 


298      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

The  dyer,  imbibing  impiously  and  too  well,  had  let 
fall  a  few  mysterious  words  concerning  her  par- 
entage that  night  before  the  wedding,  when  he  had 
treated  the  new-found  and  half -starved  bridegroom- 
to-be  in  the  little  cafe  around  the  corner.  The  young 
man  had  scarcely  listened,  at  the  time ;  he  was  inter- 
ested in  the  commestibles,  and  not  in  his  future 
"wife!"  She  had  meant  nothing  to  him — then. 
Nothing !  Fancy  that !  He  tried  now  to  bring  back 
what  the  dyer  had  ambiguously  sputtered,  or  splut- 
tered, over  potations,  but  he  didn't  succeed  very 
well.  Something  about  the  girl's  own  mother  ? — ^the 
Greeks  ? — the  Rumanians  ? — or  had  it  been  the  stal- 
wart and  romantic  Montenegrins? 

He  gave  it  up.  Hunger,  instead  of  curiosity,  had 
occupied  him  when  he  might  have  sounded  the 
dyer  further.  Another — good  old  Sherlock,  for 
example — in  his  place,  on  that  occasion,  would  have 
scented  something  wrong  in  Denmark,  or  Damascus, 
and  started  at  once  deducting  or  deducing,  instead 
of  introducing  mere  warak  mahde,  khiyar  and  other 
outlandish  species  of  viands  into  his  system.  He, 
Jack  Stanton,  alias  the  dervish,  should  have  divined 
immediately  a  romance  and  a  mystery  and  proceeded 


THE   BRAZIER  299 

accordingly  with  Machiavellian  circumlocution  and 
caution.;  instead  he  had  only  plunged  into  the  game 
blindly,  haphazardly,  a  veritable  football  of  for- 
tune, or  misfortune,  as  the  events  of  this  night  would 
decide.  And,  considering  what  lay  before  him  and 
the  absence  of  those  peculiar  gifts  of  the  popular 
investigator,  the  latter  was  not  unlikely. 

For  all  the  rather  chaotic  trend  of  his  thoughts, 
he  had  been  moving  on,  not  aimlessly,  but  as  if 
bent  upon  some  destination  and  going  the  shortest 
way  to  it.  Passing  through  a  covered  portion  of  a 
bazaar,  he  came  upon  a  number  of  fruit  stalls ;  these 
he  rapidly  left  behind  him.  The  shadow  of  a  great 
tree  cast  its  black  outlines  momentarily  before  him, 
but  he  forgot  to  pause  and  murmur  the  customary 
pious  words  at  the  sight  of  the  sylvan  monarch, 
planted  at  the  birth  of  the  revered  Mohammed.  In- 
stead he  plunged  at  once  into  a  small  lane,  at  the 
end  of  which  were  well-known  and  historic  bazaars, 
where  all  the  artisans,  plying  a  certain  trade,  were 
congregated  and  huddled  up  together.  On  busy  days 
they  stitched  and  stitched  and  waxed  their  threads  in 
a  kind  of  wearisome  unison.  They  looked  more  or 
less  alike  and  were  set  in  almost  identical  back- 


300      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

grounds.  So  they  had  appeared  a  thousand  years, 
or  more,  ago,  and  so  they  would  appear,  if  left  to 
follow  their  own  bent,  a  thousand  years,  or  more, 
hence.  A  funereal  silence  now  pervaded  the  quarter ; 
the  bright  backgrounds  were  blanks;  the  workers 
had,  for  the  most  part,  receded  long  ago  into  the 
mysterious  abysms  at  the  backs  of  their  shops  or 
booths.  Maybe  a  few  of  them  were  abroad  with  the 
other  hoodlums  and  had  not  yet  returned  home. 

Passing  noiselessly  back  and  forth  amid  the  lim- 
ited confines  of  this  ill-lighted  neighborhood,  Jack 
Stanton  scrutinized  and  studied,  as  best  he  might, 
a  number  of  shop-fronts,  particularly  the  larger  and 
more  pretentious  ones.  Half  a  dozen  of  the  latter 
he  had  carefully  gazed  upon  and  apparently  to  no 
purpose,  when  finally  he  again  stopped.  A  few 
Arabic  characters  over  the  entrance  to  this  place 
he  made  out  with  difficulty,  but  they  seemed  to  sat- 
isfy him,  to  be  what  he  was  looking  for. 

Casting  burglarious  glances  up  and  down  the  nar- 
row way,  he  tried  now  the  door  and  found  it,  of 
course,  locked.  The  lock,  though,  was  of  wood,  and 
the  sliding  bolt,  with  tiny  pins  set  in  it,  of  the  same 
material.     A  modern  expert  in  opening  doors — 


THE    BRAZIER  301 

house,  or  safe — ^would  have  chortled  with  glee  over 
that  lock.  It  was  antediluvian,  paleozoic.  True,  it 
would  keep  out  our  camels,  or  dromedaries.  But  as 
for  people  ? — Perhaps  it  was  supposed  to  exercise  a 
mere  moral  effect  upon  them.  Stanton  applied  a 
knife;  he  was  not  an  expert,  but  he  managed  to 
slide  the  bolt  back.  The  door  yielded  and  he  en- 
tered. 

In  the  interior  of  the  shop,  quietude  reigned.  He 
listened.  Not  a  sound !  Quietly  he  closed  the  door 
and  slid  back  the  bolt.  Then  he  began  to  make  his 
way  through  a  litter  of  dark  objects,  some  hanging 
and  some  on  the  floor,  when  the  woodwork  creaked 
loudly  and  again  he  paused.  But  still  he  heard 
nothing  to  alarm  him  and  once  more  went  forward 
toward  a  tiny  streak  of  yellow.  In  the  rear  of  the 
shop  he  found  a  dim  light,  as  he  looked  in  between 
low  hanging  draperies  before  entering.  Drawing 
the  curtains  closely  together  after  him,  so  the  light 
should  not  be  visible  to  any  who  might  pass  in  front 
of  the  shop,  he  ventured  to  turn  up  the  wick  of  the 
small  hanging  lamp.  It  cast  brighter  reflections 
upon  the  cheap  draperies  and  the  thick  rugs  in  the 
small  room  and  metamorphosed  dim  shapeless  ob- 


302      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

jects  into  pistol  holders,  straps,  stirrups  and  saddles, 
highly  embroidered,  heaped  up,  or  hanging,  an  over- 
flow of  wares  from  without. 

The  intruder  did  not  lay  a  pillaging  finger  on 
this  fair  and  goodly  array  of  merchandise;  indeed, 
he  hardly  glanced  at  it,  or  saw  it  only  as  a  part  of 
the  whole.  Yet  his  swift  anxious  looks  swept  every 
part  of  that  chamber.  He  looked  on  shelves  and 
under  rugs;  he  peered  into  corners;  he  felt  in  out 
of  the  way  places.  He  glanced  in  jugs  and  jars; 
he  turned  a  mihkara  (perfume  vessel)  upside  down. 
He  shook  an  empty  big-mouthed  water-bottle;  he 
examined  all  the  cushions  thoroughly;  he  unrolled 
a  mattress  and  felt  every  part  of  it.  He  tossed  the 
mattress  aside.  Then,  having  only  his  labor  for  his 
pains,  he  sat  down  and  looked  thoughtful. 

His  opportunity  was  now — ^he  would  probably 
never  have  another  chance — and  yet  only  failure 
had  rewarded  his  efforts.  Since  mere  visual  ac- 
tivity, supplemented  by  eager  and  nimble  fingers, 
had  not  been  productive  of  results,  he  tried  to  reason 
the  thing  out,  to  concentrate  every  mental  faculty 
in  the  process. 

What  he  sought  was  really  valuable  only  to  him. 


THE   BRAZIER  303 

It  meant  little  to  them ;  true,  it  might  be  deemed  a 
link  in  the  chain  of  evidence  against  him,  but,  after 
all,  it  was  an  unnecessary  one  now.  It  had  satisfied 
Sadi,  had  served  to  crystallize  his  suspicions,  but  in 
itself — to  them?  Why,  there  were  prayer-books 
and  prayer-books,  galore ;  you  could  find  them  even 
in  the  Christian  quarter  in  that  conservative  old  city 
itself.  Their  proof,  par  excellence,  of  his  "crime," 
in  their  eyes — the  one  proof,  incontrovertible,  of 
the  same — was  the  man  himself.  Let  them  catch 
him,  produce  him,  tear  off  his  cloak,  and  the  rest 
would  be  simple.  His  skin  would  proclaim  the 
truth,  for  it  was  unlikely  the  dye  extended  much 
beyond  face,  shoulders,  and  hands  and  arms,  and  if 
it  did,  it  could  easily  be  washed  off  or  removed. 

All  this  being  so,  how  would  the  saddler  now 
regard  the  little  article  Stanton  had  lost,  and,  what 
was  more  important,  what  would  Sadi  do  with  it? 
Would  he  keep  it,  would  he  hide  it,  would  he  give 
it  to  Amad,  or — ^another  course  of  action,  in  this 
connection  suggested  itself. 

That  object,  for  all  true  believers,  possessed, 
definitely  and  unqualifiedly,  deleterious  and  injuri- 
ous attributes.    The  mere  personal  possession  of  it 


304      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

might  bring  all  manner  of  ill-luck,  or  trouble,  for 
thus  strongly  does  superstition  reign  in  the  minds 
of  these  people.  Iblees,  spirits,  the  evil  eye,  bad 
genii  and  what-not,  are  real  menaces  to  them.  They 
murmur  proprietary  words  on  many  occasions — 
** Allah  akbar!" — and  work  out  a  score  of  charms. 
When  they  do  not  work  them  out  themselves,  they 
have  others  work  them  out  for  them  and  pay  for 
this  task. 

Now,  it  might  be,  Sadi  would  not  continue 
to  keep  such  an  object  on  his  person,  to  permit  it  to 
rub  its  pernicious  pages  against  those  of  his  precious 
Koran.  But  Amad  for  the  same  reason  would  not 
want  it  in  his  house.  A  train  of  untoward  events, 
once  started,  is  not  easy  to  stop,  and  an  English 
prayer-book  that  has  reposed,  undetected  for  a  long 
while,  even  in  the  holiest  city  itself,  should  be  han- 
dled with  tongs.  That  such  profanation  had  been 
possible  proved  it  a  veritable  instrument  of  the  devil, 
a  malicious  child  of  the  sheytans,  or  black  ones, 
themselves.  No,  Sadi  would  not  run  the  risk  of 
carrying  it  long,  if  Stanton  was  any  judge  of  Mo- 
hammedan character.  Perhaps  the  saddler  would 
put  it  in  his  tiny  safe,  in  that  outer  office  ?    And  so 


THE    BRAZIER  305 

cause  his  gold  to  turn  into  filthy  piasters,  or  vanish 
altogether  ?    Hardly ! 

The  eye  of  the  young  man,  half-introspective, 
chanced  to  rest  on  a  mankal,  or  brazier.  He  hardly 
knew  he  was  looking  at  it,  but  subconsciously,  his 
regard  deepened.  Then,  consciously,  he  became 
aware  of  the  fact  and  suddenly  he  got  up  and  walked 
over  to  the  copper  receptacle.  A  few  flakes  of  dead 
ashes  yet  smelled  of  frankincense,  and  he  swept 
them  aside.  Whereupon  an  exclamation  fell  from 
his  lips  and  he  snatched  at  something,  or  part  of 
something.  Charred  paper — that's  what  it  was! 
All  that  remained  of  the  little  volume!  His  brain 
leaped  rapidly,  irrevocably,  to  the  conclusion.  The 
saddler  had  procured  from  a  fakir  the  customary 
dyed  salts,  certain  seeds,  and  a  few  chips  of  fra- 
grant bark,  and  had  had  a  little  incantation  scene 
all  to  himself  while  consigning  the  prayer-book  to 
the  coals. 

The  young  man  stared  blankly  at  the  ashes  that 
had  once  been  paper,  and  the  moment  was  a  bitter 
one  for  him.  He  had  lost,  and  he  had  an  especial 
reason  for  wanting  to  win  now.  Intact,  or  reason- 
ably so,  the  little  volume  would  have  meant  ten 


3o6      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

thousand  pounds  to  him.  Nay,  more!  For  now 
that  this  souvenir  of  his  pilgrimage  was  practically 
destroyed,  he  would  be  out  his  own  ten  thousand 
pounds,  his  all.  He  shook  his  head  sadly.  One 
hundred  thousand  dollars!  It  seemed  a  lot  of 
money — enough  to  start  housekeeping  with,  if 
one  was  lucky  enough  to  find  a  wife — a  real 
one — not  a  pretended  one.  With  that  hundred 
thousand,  he  might  have  had  more  courage  to  hope ; 
to  woo  and  win,  to  have  and  to  hold.  Incidentally, 
to  provide!  Of  course,  love  laughs  at  poverty,  and 
very  properly.  But  it  would  not  be  easy  to  tell  her 
what  a  confounded  ass  he  had  been — how  he  had 
lost  his  little  all — to  say:  "Behold!  I  have  re- 
duced myself  to  nothing-  Share  it."  That  would 
be  magnanimous,  generous !  A  fine  courtship !  He 
had  wedded  her  before  as  a  tramp.  He  didn't 
have  to  play  at  the  role  now.  It  fitted  him  to  a 
nicety,  was  the  heritage  of  his  own  eflforts. 

Well,  she  was  in  good  hands,  at  least,  he  could 
tell  himself.  Fitzgerald  would  look  to  it  that  she 
was  well  taken  care  of  and  that  justice  would  be 
done.    The  nobleman  would  like  nothing  better  than 


THE   BRA2IER  307 

to  see  to  that.  He  might  even  hope  to  dig  out  of 
the  situation  some  kind  of  pohtical  leverage.  Eng- 
lishmen have  a  genius  for  doing  that.  Allah  be 
praised  this  influential  peer  would  be  interested, 
Stanton  repeated  to  himself  again,  but  at  the  same 
time  sighed.  He  felt,  as  never  before,  his  own  in- 
sufficiency. He  even — so  humble  had  he  become 
before  the  catastrophe  of  the  prayer-book! — saw 
himself  eliminated,  cut  off,  then  and  there,  forever, 
as  far  as  she  was  concerned.  What  right  had  such 
a  bally  bungler  as  he  to  hope  ?  None  in  the  world ! 
Disgusted,  he  was  about  to  turn  away  from  the 
brazier  and  leave  the  place,  when  the  impulse  was 
abruptly  arrested.  From  outside,  he  caught  sud- 
denly the  sound  of  footsteps — Sadi's?  Stanton 
drew  himself  up  and  stood  listening.  He  heard  the 
bolt  slide  back,  and  peering  between  the  curtains 
he  saw  the  saddler  enter.  The  fact  did  not  greatly 
disturb  him.  Abruptly  he  realized  that  Sadi,  some- 
how, didn't  interest  him  so  much  as  formerly. 
Sadi's  sudden  entrance  ought  to  have  given  him  a 
great  thrill,  an  enormous  shock.  Instead,  he  ex- 
perienced almost  a  mild  ennui.    Damascus,  the  sad- 


3o8      ALADDIN   FROM    BROADWAY 

dler — all  the  rest  of  them,  the  whole  pack,  rather 
bored  him  now.  The  breathless  excitement  of  but 
a  short  time  ago  was  gone.  Why?  Because  she 
had  gone?  Was  that  it?  He  waited  for  Sadi  to  see 
him  and  speak.  He  anticipated  his  action.  Of 
course,  he  would  start  back. 

He  did.  He,  Sadi,  was  not  bored.  He  felt  no 
ennui  at  the  moment.  The  situation  had  for  him 
no  yawns.  There  was  nothing  soporific  about  it; 
his  eyes  seemed  to  bulge.  He  paled;  that  is,  his 
complexion  receded  to  a  sickly  yellow.  Alarm,  be- 
wilderment, enlightenment  succeeded  one  another  on 
his  eloquent  visage. 

"The  masquerading  Christian  who  went  to 
Mecca!"  he  stammered. 

Stanton  smiled,  almost  ingratiatingly.  So  Sadi 
knew  him.  In  spite  of  the  costume  of  the  romance- 
reciter!  He  had  not  probably  jumped  to  a  conclu- 
sion who  he  was,  merely  because  he  had  discovered 
him  in  his  humble  mandarah.  The  Hebrew  players 
must  have  told ;  they  had,  perhaps,  found  it  to  their 
advantage  to  do  so. 

"Come  in,"  said  Stanton,  with  the  manners  of  a 
host.     At  that  moment  he  felt  no  special  enmity 


THE   BRAZIER  309 

against  the  other.  The  mischief  had  been  done.  No 
use  kicking  against  the  pricks.  A  man  who  has 
lost  sometimes  experiences  a  gentle  magnanimity 
toward  the  world,  even  for  his  enemies  therein. 
Perhaps  the  emotion  bears  some  relation  to  "that 
tired  feeling." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ONE  WAY 

SADI  would  have  obeyed  the  other's  invitation, 
but  not  in  the  manner  it  was  extended.  He 
showed  a  disposition  to  behave  like  unto  the  pro- 
verbial bull  in  the  china  shop.  He  looked  as  if  he 
wanted  to  toss  things  around,  Stanton  included. 
Indeed,  he  started  forward  to  do  so,  then  suddenly- 
stopped.    Stanton  stifled  a  yawn. 

"Good!"  he  said.  "Too  small  a  place  to  muss 
around  in !  Might  destroy  some  of  the  bric-a-brac." 

The  saddler  looked  at  him;  or  rather,  at  a  small 
glittering  object  Stanton  had,  at  the  last  moment, 
insisted  upon  the  players  giving  him  for  good 
measure — a  mere  trifle  from  one  of  the  magic 
bundles  that  had  contained  a  small  armament  of 
cheap  weapons.  That  little  plaything  Stanton  now 
handled  carelessly;  it  had  occurred  to  him  It  might 
serve  for  moral  effect  in  certain  exigencies.  One 
such  exigency  was  now.     For  how  was  Sadi  to 

310 


ONE   WAY  311 

know  it  was  a  stage  property,  that  it  wasn't  loaded, 
and  maybe  wouldn't  have  gone  off  if  it  had  been,  or 
if  it  had  been  and  had  gone  off,  it  would  probably 
have  blown  up  the  shooter? 

The  saddler  paused  with  an  ugly  grimace  that 
did  not  improve  the  appearance  of  his  somewhat  bat- 
tered countenance.    Stanton  waved  the  weapon. 

"Gro  away,"  he  said  nonchalantly.  "Or  if  you 
must  remain,  don't  get  boisterous." 

Sadi  glowered.  When  a  man  waits  for  you  in 
your  own  house,  he  does  so,  of  course,  but  for  one 
purpose.  And  when  the  intruder  told  him  to  go 
away,  he  implied  that  he  preferred  to  shoot  him 
through  the  back.  It  would  be  safer,  and  was  the 
favorite  mode  of  assassination.  Sadi  refused 
though  to  turn  around;  he  preferred  to  be  shot  in 
front.  Cowardice  was  not  one  of  his  weaknesses. 
Perhaps  if  the  first  bullet  didn't  strike  home,  he 
might  manage  to  slit  the  other's  throat.  He  breathed 
a  pious  request  to  Allah,  the  Compassionate,  that 
this  gentle  wish  might  come  true.  Stanton  was 
contemplating  him  now  in  a  far-away,  non-anxious 
manner  that  implied  disconcerting  confidence  in  his 
weapon  and  his  ability  to  cope  with  the  situation. 


312      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

"Why  did  you  have  to  intrude?"  he  asked  re- 
proachfully. 

The  tremendous  effrontery  of  the  question  seemed 
to  stagger  Sadi.  He  looked  around  on  his  own 
household  goods,  his  own  wares,  the  result  of  his 
own  toil,  and  doubts  began  to  flitter  in  his  brain. 
Was  the  fellow  a  madman,  or  an  offshoot  of  the 
devil,  one  of  those  black  spirits  that  dwell  in  the 
chain  of  mountains  called  Kaf  ?  Certainly  enough 
mischief  had  followed  in  the  wake  of  this  mustahall 
to  justify  the  belief  he  might  be  one  of  those  deni- 
zens from  the  cavernous  depths  who,  according  to 
tradition,  visits  cities  and  homes,  just  to  create  dis- 
sensions, and — ^yes,  make  love  to  other  men's  wives 
with  a  felicity  that  is  more  human  than  superhuman. 

Instinctively  Sadi  murmured  the  mystical  "de- 
stoor,"  the  two  syllables  that  are  always  efficacious 
with  spirits  and  never  fail  to  cause  them  to  evapo- 
rate. But  still  the  other  did  not  vanish  from  his 
fireside,  or  the  side  of  his  brazier.  That,  at  least, 
was  reassuring.  Besides,  a  spirit  wouldn't  have  to 
borrow  clothes  from  poor  strollers;  he  could  just 
will  himself  to  look  any  part  he  pleased,  from  beg- 
gar to  heart-breaker.    The  saddler  did  fear  spirits ; 


ONE   WAY  313 

having  established  in  his  own  mind  that  his  visitor 
was  not  one,  his  courage  revived  rapidly. 

"What  do  you  want  ?"  he  now  demanded  savagely. 
Of  course  he  knew  what  the  other  wanted, — he 
wanted  him.    But  he  asked  the  question,  anyhow. 

"I  don't  want  anything  now,"  answered  the  visitor 
gently. 

The  saddler's  brain  juggled  with  this  reply.  He 
couldn't  make  anything  of  it.  That  annoyed  him. 

"I  did  want  something,"  went  on  the  other.  "But 
there's  no  use  crying  for  the  moon!" 

More  mystification!  Sadi  opened  and  closed  his 
big  fists  aggressively.  Stanton,  behind  that  care- 
less manner,  now  watched  him  narrowly.  "Ten 
shots,  half  a  second  delivery!"  he  murmured,  apos- 
trophizing his  weapon.  "The  burglar's  antipathy! 
That's  what  it's  called  in  the  advertisements."  His 
cheerful  eyes  yet  held  Sadi  at  a  distance.  But  they 
wouldn't  long;  nor  the  weapon,  either!  The  sad- 
dler was  hesitating ;  his  face  was  dark  as  a  thunder- 
cloud. The  other  felt  it  coming — Sadi  would  call 
his  play. 

"What  have  you  done  with  her  ?"  now  burst  from 
him  aggressively. 


314      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

"Suppose  we  leave  the  lady  out  of  the  question? 
And  now" — as  well  get  it  over! — "what  is  it  to  be, 
peace  or  war?  Up  to  you  to  decide.  I  was  going 
when  you  came." 

"Oh,  you  were?"  With  brutal  incredulity.  "You 
weren't  waiting  for  me,  then  ?" 

"No,  my  friend!  And  even  now,  though  I  might 
slay  you  as  a  sheep  at  the  sacrifice,  I  will  spare  you 
if  you  will  be  good!" 

"Perhaps  you  weren't  expecting  me?"  Sadi's 
eyes  shone  with  low  cunning. 

"I  did  not  expect  the  pleasure."  Stifling  a  yawn, 
real  or  affected.  "I  did  not  come  to  get  you,  but  it. 
You,  as  an  individual,  are  nothing  to  me.  It  "jvould 
not  grieve  me  if  you  lived  to  be  as  old  as  Methuse- 
lah. I  don't  want  your  money  or  your  life.  All  I 
do  want — or  did" — glancing  swiftly  toward  the 
brazier — "was  my  own  property.  Something  you 
deprived  me  of — a  little  prayer-book — "  Sadi  sud- 
denly raised  a  hand  to  his  breast. 

"What !"  Stanton's  voice  now  rang  out  sharply, 
in  accents  of  surprise.  "So  much  for  deduction! 
You've  got  it.  You've  actually  got  it.  You  haven't 
destroyed  it — "    The  saddler  did  not  answer.    "I'll 


ONE    WAY  315 

trouble  you  for  that  book,"  went  on  the  young 
man  in  that  same  different  tone.  "And  at  once!" 
He  held  the  property  weapon  now  pointed  straight 
at  Sadi's  heart.  His  manner  was  brusk  and  deter- 
mined. It  might  succeed;  it  might  win  out;  it  was 
a  final  attempt.  It  would,  no  doubt,  have  prevailed 
with  many,  but  not  with  the  saddler.  Those  changed 
accents  on  the  contrary,  acted  upon  him  as  a  red 
flag  on  a  bull ;  the  saddler  made  a  rush,  whipping  as 
he  did  so,  a  long  blade  from  his  cloak.  Stanton 
saw  him  coming  and  raised  the  arm  with  the  futile 
weapon.  He  brought  it  down  violently,  not  on  Sadi ; 
the  property  pistol  struck  the  lamp  overhead.  Bits 
of  glass  fell  around  them,  and  in  the  darkness  that 
ensued  Sadi  came  up  against  a  hard  wall.  That 
jarred  him  violently,  but  he  recovered  in  an  instant, 
and  rushed  toward  the  front  door;  the  fellow  must 
not  get  out.  He  was  not  trying  to.  A  moment  the 
saddler  waited  expectantly.  Farther  back  now  he 
heard  the  other,  then  nearer,  as  if  circling  toward 
him.  Sadi  followed  the  sound  and  sprang  toward 
it,  striking — striking.  Now  the  other  was  in  a 
comer.  Allah!  What  joy!  The  saddler  tasted  in 
advance  the  pleasures  of  paradise.     His  turn  had 


3i6      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

come  at  last.  The  sharp  blade  no  longer  fanned  the 
air.  It  came  in  contact  with  a  palpable  but  yield- 
ing substance.  It  sank  in.  Elysium!  The  angels 
(or  houris)  sang.  Was  that  a  groan?  For  Sadi,  it 
was  like  the  sweetest  strain  from  the  harp  of  the 
angel,  Israfil. 

The  saddler  stood  still  to  listen.  The  groan  was 
repeated.  Then  silence!  The  fellow  was  down. 
He  did  not  even  use  his  weapon ;  it  must  be  he  was 
unable  to.  Not  long  ago  the  saddler  had  felt  the 
boot.  Now  the  boot  was  on  the  other  leg.  Injuries, 
oM  and  new,  would  be  atoned  for.  Sadi  waited. 
Then  his  taunting  voice  arose.  He  exhausted  the 
vocabulary  of  a  camel-driving  dialect.  Still  no  an- 
swer; no  sound — only  that  of  his  own  hoarse 
breathing.  Yet  stay! — he  did  catch  a  barely  per- 
ceptible swishing,  as  of  a  body  dragging  itself  along 
the  floor.  The  fellow  spoke  now  in  a  faint  voice 
— a  plea  for  mercy?  The  saddler  would  show 
him  that — oh,  yes.  Those  tones  again  guided  the 
other,  but  this  time,  the  dog  of  a  Christian  seemed 
like  water  flowing  through  the  hand.  It  was  im- 
possible to  seize  him.  Nor  could  Sadi's  blade  again 
find  him.     But  he,  stepping  swiftly  aside,  had  evi- 


ONE   WAY  317 

dently  located  the  saddler  for  the  latter  felt  a  rush 
of  air.  Then  suddenly  music  became  discord.  It 
was  as  if  the  house  had  fallen  down,  or  the  world 
had  been  rent  asunder.  And  in  that  general  cata- 
clysm subsequent  proceedings  interested  Sadi  no 
more. 

A  man  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  saddler's 
shop  a  few  moments  later,  and  after  peering  in 
either  direction,  stepped  out,  closing  the  door  behind 
him.  Stanton  walked  uncertainly  though  quickly, 
being  anxious  to  leave  the  neighborhood  behind  him 
as  soon  as  possible.  Before  he  had  gone  far,  how- 
ever, he  felt  obliged  to  stop,  at  a  dark  angle  of  the 
street,  to  bind  up  as  well  as  he  could,  with  a  scarf 
snatched  from  the  shop,  a  deep  and  nasty  gash  on  his 
shoulder.  Even  as  he  did  so  he  became  aware  of  a 
certain  faintness  stealing  over  him.  Yet  behind  this 
feeling  that  other  one  of  exhilaration  predominated. 

He  had  it — his  proof  that  he  had  been  to  Mecca 
— that  tiny  volume,  which  was  as  valuable  to  him 
as  a  wonderful  diamond.  He  was  a  hundred 
thousand  dollar  vagabond  now,  a  veritable  king 
of  beggars.    The  thought  buoyed  his  footsteps;  he 


3i8      ALADDIN   FROM    BROADWAY 

forgot  weakness,  or  fought  it  down.  He  seemed 
like  one  walking  in  a  wild  dream.  But  it  was  not 
an  unpleasant  one — on  the  contrary.  He  found 
himself  actually  enjoying  this  after-midnight  prom- 
enade, in  a  strange  kind  of  way.  He  didn't  know 
whether  he  had  killed  Sadi  or  not.  He  didn't  much 
care.  He  had  struck  him  with  the  pot  of  brass,  the 
saddler's  perfume  jug,  or  heating  apparatus.  He 
had  smote  Sadi  with  his  own  "fireside,"  rather  an 
ironical  procedure,  but  a  necessary  one.  The  sad- 
dler's skull  was  thick  though  and  he  might  survive 
to  make  himself  a  nuisance,  perhaps,  some  day,  to 
some  other  Christian.    That  lay  with  Providence. 

An  irresponsible  feeling  of  momentary  triumph 
on  Stanton's  part  became  abruptly  shadowed.  An- 
other thought,  or  question,  disconcerting,  baffling, 
had  occurred  to  him.  What  service  would  that  book 
or  little  souvenir  be  to  him,  when  he  couldn't  get  out 
of  the  city  ?  He  paused  and  leaned  against  the  wall 
of  a  house;  he  realized  he  felt  more  giddy,  a  bit 
light-headed.  What  a  mockery  of  fate  if  he  yielded 
to  growing  weakness  now,  with  that  key  to  success, 
under  propitious  circumstances,  right  in  his  hand. 
"Success!"   he   repeated   longingly,    the   while   he 


ONE   WAY  319 

gripped  the  tiny  object  tighter.  Then  his  mind 
seemed  to  drift  somewhat  from  pertinent  considera- 
tions ;  his  brain  seemed  capable  of  queer  little  lapses. 
He  chuckled  sardonically,  incongruously.  Some- 
thing tickled  his  funny-bone. 

To  think  that  this  little  thing  in  his  fist  had  been 
buried  so  long  in  a  holy  wall,  in  the  holy  city !  And 
yet  it  was  said  Englishmen  had  so  sense  of  humor. 
An  autobiography  of  his  little  souvenir  would  be 
good  enough  for  Punch.  An  English  prayer-book, 
high  church,  in  the  sacred  masonry;  almost  at  the 
foot  of  the  tomb  of  the  Prophet,  himself!  Stan- 
ton would  have  liked  to  meet  the  son  of  the  tight 
little  isle  who  had  thought  out  that  jokelet;  all 
by  himself.  Had  it  been  Ruffianly  Dick,  he  of  the 
"unabridged  ?"  Fitzgerald  had  told  him  when  they 
two  had  arranged  details  in  old  Manhattan  town. 
Stanton  tried  to  think — ^but  caught  himself  up  with 
a  jerk. 

The  idea  of  cudgeling  his  brain,  or  clogging  it, 
with  inconsequential  minutiae  at  such  a  moment! 
His  thoughts  now  focused  steadily  on  that  element 
in  the  situation  revealed  by  the  coming  of  Sadi. 
Prior  to  this  second  brief  but  spirited  interview 


320      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

with  the  saddler,  Stanton  had  calculated  that,  alone, 
he  might  tarry  in  the  city,  in  the  event  he  was  un- 
able to  leave,  without  too  great  danger,  relying 
upon  the  garments  of  an  ahoo  for  protection.  But 
that  comforting  reflection  had  been  dissipated.  Sadi 
had  learned  about  the  transaction  in  the  graveyard, 
and  had  recognized  at  once  in  the  romance-reciter, 
his  former  acquaintance  of  the  march.  Had  he  im- 
parted his  information  to  others?  No  doubt  of  it! 
Stanton  could  hardly  venture  now  to  tell  many  tales 
on  the  street  corners,  or  in  the  cafes  of  Damascus. 
Confound  the  strollers!  They  probably  had  been 
but  too  glad  to  nibble  at  the  reward  the  diamond 
merchant  was  sure  to  have  offered.  Stanton  sighed. 
He  seemed  to  be  getting  back  to  where  he  had  been 
some  time  ago. 

He  had  to  leave  town.  The  conclusion  was  like 
a  retrogression.  How  long  ago  had  he  been  think- 
ing the  same  thing,  with  her  at  his  side  ?  An  hour, 
two  hours?  It  must  be  nearly  two  o'clock  by  this 
time.  But  he  must  not  think  of  that,  or  of  her  now. 
Only  it  was  difficult  to  avoid  doing  so.  He  had  not 
realized  how  near  and  dear  she  had  become.  Why, 
she  was  indispensable.    That  was  the  word.    Indis- 


ONE  WAY  321 

pensable !  He  had  to  have  her.  She  was  necessary 
to  his  existence.  Where  she  went,  he  would  follow, 
though  to  the  ends  of  the  world.  He  no  longer  felt 
physical  weakness,  or  told  himself  he  didn't.  The 
cut  on  his  shoulder  was  nothing;  he  was  slightly 
unsteady,  that  was  all,  but  strong — strong  enough 
to  get  out  of  the  intolerant  city.  He  experienced 
only  savage  anger  now  against  those  who  would 
keep  him  here;  they  had  no  right  to  attempt  to  do 
so ;  he  would  break  the  bars  of  this  Moslem  prison, 
he  did  not  much  care  how,  nor  at  what  risk  to  him- 
self. To-night — it  must  be  to-night  he  would  go. 
Reiteration!  Helpless,  hopeless,  almost  childish  re- 
iteration! But,  at  least,  he  didn't  have  to  think  of 
her  now  in  any  plans  he  might  make.  He  did  not 
have  to  ask  her  to  share  any  risks,  the  way  he  had 
when  he  had  left  her  in  the  market  place. 

The  market  place?  Suddenly  he  started.  The 
stall?  The  Star  of  the  Desert?  Was  the  great- 
est stallion  still  there,  where  he  had  left  him? 
It  was  possible.  It  was  even  most  likely.  Amad 
was  probably  devoting  his  efforts  principally  to 
guarding  the  exits  at  present.  He  would  play  "safe." 
He  couldn't  very  well  raKe  that  city  of  mystery 


322      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

and  a  myriad  hiding-places  while  it  was  dark.  He 
would  wait  for  the  mom  to  do  that.  Then  perhaps 
the  fanatics  would  have  wearied  of  burning  and 
looting  in  the  native  Christian  quarter  and  be  more 
ready  to  devote  themselves  to  the  diamond  mer- 
chant's personal  concerns.  There  was  too  much 
confusion  in  the  city  to  have  conducted  a  very  sys- 
tematic search  as  yet. 

The  young  man  started  toward  the  market  place. 
If  only  he  could  reach  there,  mount  the  Star,  and 
"rush"  one  of  the  exits,  or  attempt  to  do  so!  It 
seemed  rather  a  mad  expedient,  but  it  might  not  be 
impossible.  Indeed,  the  things  that  look  hardest,  are 
sometimes  the  least  difficult.  Had  he  not  seen  that 
demonstrated  in  the  great  college  game?  The  un- 
expected succeeded.  He  himself  had  once  been  se- 
lected by  his  team  to  pull  off  a  stunt,  seemingly  about 
as  unachievable  as  this  one.  But  it  had  been  at  a 
crisis ;  all  was  lost  unless  something  of  the  kind  could 
be  accomplished.  And  he,  the  lucky  half-back,  had 
turned  the  trick.  That  goal  had  been  for  glory; 
this  was  for  paradise.  It  was  guarded  by  soldiers 
who  should  be  sleepy  by  this  time.  And  if  not 
sleepy,  fairly  inebriated!    They  had  had  an  early 


ONE   WAY  323 

start.  Besides,  they  probably  couldn't  shoot  straight 
anyhow.  The  thoroughfare  was  dark;  he  could 
manage  to  get  fairly  close,  before — 

Yes;  he  would  do  it.  Nerve  would  carry  a  man 
far.  Even  as  he  told  himself  this,  he  stumbled,  but 
recovered  with  a  feeling  of  surprised  impatience  and 
continued.  He  saw  at  length  the  open  space  of 
the  market  before  him  and  paused  to  rest.  Not  long ! 
— consciousness  might  leave  him,  he  had  certainly 
lost  a  bit  of  blood,  and  the  day  would  come  and  find 
him  there.  It  would  not  be  dark  much  longer.  Soon 
would  be  heard  the  call  to  morning  prayer.  He 
must  hasten — hasten —  And  with  an  effort  he  did. 

Now  he  was  at  the  entrance  of  the  square.  His 
hand  brushed  against  the  wall  and  he  groped  his  way 
along.  At  last  he  stood  before  the  stall.  A  low 
whinny  greeted  him.  Pegasus! — Garden  of  Eden! 
— cedars  of  Solomon — "song  of  songs" — his 
thoughts  were  chaotic.  He  hardly  knew  what  he 
did.  But  he  managed  to  unfasten  Pegasus.  It  took 
him  some  time  to  mount.  Good  old  Pegasus ! — how 
still  he  stood ! — seemed  to  know.  Goal ! — garden ! — 
song! — clinging  with  one  hand  to  the  pommel  of  the 
saddle,  swaying  like  a  drunkard,  he  rode  forth. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A   SURPRISE 

IN  the  street  of  the  bazaars  the  story-tellers  told, 
the  next  day,  how  he  got  out.  It  had  not  been 
such  a  difficult  matter.  Surprised,  some  of  the 
guard  had  swallowed  the  aromatic  hempen  cuds 
they  had  been  chewing.  Others  had  barely  evaded 
the  violent  rush  of  the  great  stallion,  maddened  when 
his  rider  had  unexpectedly  lashed  him.  A  few 
desultory  detonations  had  enlivened  the  situation, 
without,  apparently,  affecting  the  result.  "The  Van- 
ishing Bridegroom,"  the  story-tellers  called  him. 
The  bride  had  vanished  yet  more  mysteriously.  She 
had  simply  become  as  not  and  no  one  knew  why.  The 
narrative  made  an  excellent  one  for  the  listeners  in 
the  narrow  Damascan  streets,  the  fiction-makers  in- 
fusing into  it  a  spice  of  the  supernatural.  Else  how 
could  they  explain  the  climax? 

324 


A   SURPRISE  ;32S 

How  could  the  lady  have  been  whisked  away,  tin'" 
less  the  substitute  bridegroom  was  in  reality  a  genie 
or  an  afrit?  These  mischievous  and  uncanny  ones 
like  to  assume  human  shape,  to  fool  people,  or  work 
havoc  in  the  homes  of  husbands,  notably  old  gentle- 
men married  to  young  brides.  This  genie  had  the 
gift  of  appearing  anyhow,  anywhere.  First,  he  was 
a  ragged  dervish,  then  a  wonderfully  handsome 
young  man.  He  had  made  love  to  the  fair  young 
bride  right  under  the  former  husband's  nose.  He 
had  set  them  all  at  cross-purposes.  He  had  played 
a  merry  mad  game  of  hide-and-seek. 

Amad  heard  this  version  of  the  tale  and  his  rage 
was  frightful  to  behold.  His  domestic  affairs  made 
a  theme  for  street-comer  entertainment,  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  a  kanoon!  The  story  of  his  in- 
felicities listened  to  by  the  gaping  multitude!  In- 
tolerable! He  told  Light  of  Life  what  he  thought 
of  her,  what  a  fine  guardian  she  had  been.  And 
Light  of  Life  told  him  what  she  thought  of  him. 
Fool !  ever  to  have  divorced  the  young  minx.  And 
then  ever  to  have  allowed  himself  to  be  tied  and 
gagged  by  the  fellow.  She  had  the  better  of  the 
argument.    She  always  did  have.    Amad  was  fool- 


326      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

ish  to  indulge  in  recriminations.  He  retired  from 
the  field  of  battle  with  strange  rumblings  in  his 
chest. 

When  he  had  recovered  a  little  he  tried  to  induce 
authority  to  step  in  and  stop  the  story-teller  on  the 
street  corner,  but  the  sabit  of  police  shrugged  in 
a  lukewarm  manner  at  his  request.  Story-tellers  had 
inalienable  rights.  For  six  hundred  years  they  had 
been  accorded  privileges.  Besides,  the  hero  of  this 
tale  was  supposed  to  be  a  genie,  one  of  those  evil 
spirits  of  the  air  and  it  is  not  wise  to  interfere  in 
such  cases.  It  might  be  displeasing  to  the  genie. 
He  might,  in  revenge,  haunt  the  habit's  home.  One 
has  to  be  very  polite  to  these  supernatural  beings. 

Amad  scoffed  at  the  official  and  explained  when 
a  genie  was  not  a  genie,  and  why,  but  the  head  of 
police  only  listened  incredulously.  The  rich  dia- 
mond merchant  could  not  explain  the  lady's  disap- 
pearance. If  that  wasn't  magic,  the  zabit  was  no 
judge  of  magic,  and  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
magic.  And  every  true  follower  of  the  faith  knew 
magic  did  exist,  and,  like  lightning,  was  apt  to  strike 
anywhere.  The  visitor  had  better  go  home  and  make 
the  best  of  it.    Nothing  would  be  gained  by  attempt- 


A   SURPRISE  327 

ing  to  cross  a  spirit  of  the  air.  Perhaps  some  day 
the  aforesaid  spirit  would  condescend  to  return  the 
young  lady. 

Again  Amad  used  camel  language.  "Return?" 
He  almost  choked.  The  substitute  husband  was 
an  American,  he  protested,  a  dog  of  a  foreigner, 
who  had  been  to  Mecca.  The  sabit  looked  queer. 
No  doubt  this  caller  was  a  little  touched  in  the 
head  by  his  loss.  The  diamond  merchant  went  on 
that  he  would  prove  his  assertions  by  Sadi,  but  he 
couldn't  just  now.  The  saddler  was  at  present  in- 
disposed, unconscious.  Some  one  had  considerably 
damaged  his  head.  It  was  a  mystery  how  it  had 
happened.  Perhaps,  suggested  the  official,  it  was 
more  magic.  The  genie  was  angry.  Are  not  the 
tales  full  of  instances  of  their  wrath?  And  there- 
upon the  magistrate  called,  before  him  the  guard  at 
the  gate  and  questioned  him.  They,  scenting  which 
way  the  wind  blew,  affirmed  that  from  the  horse's 
nostrils  had  come  flames.  When  he  snorted,  sparks 
flew.  This  was  the  easiest  way  out  of  a  predica- 
ment for  them.  Perhaps,  too,  by  this  time,  they  had 
almost  persuaded  themselves  there  had  been  fiery 
indications.     Ergo,  the  horse  was  enchanted,  and. 


328      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

ergo  again,  you  couldn't  be  expected  to  stop  an  en- 
chanted horse.    Thus  they  crawled  out  of  a  hole. 

Amad  left,  but  not  to  go  home.  He  had  already 
sent  horsemen  down  the  way  which  is  the  shortest 
way  to  the  sea.  He,  himself,  now  followed  these 
horsemen  and  with  others  of  his  friends  and  satel- 
lites. They  might  yet  catch  the  fellow,  or  at  least 
find  some  trace  of  him.  They  did.  Amad,  after  a 
long,  long  ride,  came  up  with  those  he  had  des- 
patched earlier.  They  had  paused  at  the  boundary 
line  beyond  which  lies  a  non-Moslem  zone.  In  that 
independent  liwa^  over  which  presides  a  Christian 
governor,  appointed  with  the  consent  of  the  powers, 
any  Christian  is  safe.  No  Mohammedan  may  harm 
him.  Amad  might  have  proceeded  farther,  but  to 
what  purpose  ?  Just  to  shake  his  fist  at  his  enemy  ? 
If  he  did  more  than  that,  the  five  powers,  or  one  of 
them,  would  settle  with  him.  He  could  not  escape ; 
he  would  be  sought  for,  wherever  he  was,  and 
dragged  forth.  He  gritted  his  teeth.  Then  there 
was  a  bitterer  pill  to  swallow. 

Tied  to  a  bush  at  the  very  border  of  the  accursed 
zone,  the  diamond  merchant  saw  the  Star  of  the 
Desert    The  noble  animal  looked  pretty  well  tuck- 


A   SURPRISE  329 

ered  out,  though  the  young  man  had  selected  an  ex- 
cellent grazing  spot  for  his  equine  friend,  removed 
the  saddle  and  made  him  as  comfortable  as  possible. 
As  Amad  swung  on  to  the  scene  the  Star  was  en- 
gaged in  nibbling  languidly  succulent  blades  on  the 
mountain  of  holy  associations.  A  shot  or  two  had 
grazed  him,  but,  no  doubt,  he  would  be  right  enough 
soon.  Fastened  to  the  saddle  fluttered  a  bit  of 
white ;  it  was  a  message  hastily  scrawled  on  a  rather 
disreputable  bit  of  paper.  The  diamond  merchant 
seized  and  visually  devoured  it. 

"To  the  illustrious,  etc.,  etc.,  Amad  Ahl-Masr:" 
— the  fellow  could  be  polite,  exquisitely  so — 
"Herewith,  I  am  returning  your  property."  The 
reader  groaned.  The  "property"  continued  to  nib- 
ble. "Thank  you  for  the  loan.  I  have  rubbed  him 
down  well.  Farewell!  We  meet  no  more.  Our 
acquaintance,  though  short,  has  been  sweet.  I  have 
enjoyed  my  stay  in  your — oh,  so  interesting  city. 
I  was  a  stranger  and  you  took  me  in.  For  courtesies 
and  attentions  a  thousand  thanks.  I  shall  never 
forget  your  hospitality.  Remember  me  to  our  mu- 
tual friends,  Sadi,  the  dyer,  and — " 

Here  he  mentioned  one  or  two  others.  The  name, 
"Jack  Stanton,"  followed. 


330      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

Amad  regarded  the  note  and  he  didn't  say  a  word. 
There  are  limitations  even  to  camel  language.  Be- 
low the  signature  was  more  writing. 

"My  regards  to  dear  Light  of  Life.  What  a 
charming  woman !  Cherish  her.  Preserve  her  as  the 
apple  of  your  eye.  My  one  regret  is  that  I  can't  take 
my  dear  mother-in-law  with  me.  I  pass  her  on  to 
you.  I  owe  you  something  and  thus  pay  my  debt. 
Pardon  bad  writing.  I  have  a  little  cut.  Don't 
worry.  It  doesn't  amount  to  anything.  I  am  feeling 
much  better.  You  will  be  so  pleased  to  learn  this. 
The  mountain  air  has  such  tonic  properties.  Once 
more  affectionate  salutations,  etc. 

"Postscript  No.  2 :  Note  the  marks  on  the  road. 
What  do  they  spell  for  you?  Rubber?  Ever  hear 
of  tires?    Automobiles?" 

A  flood  of  knowledge  suddenly  illumined  the 
reader's  brain.  The  mystery  of  the  vanishing  lady 
was  no  longer  a  mystery.  Afar  up  the  mountain 
now  he  thought  he  saw  something  flutter — a 
ragged  cloak  of  a  distant  wayfarer  on  the  road. 
But  he  saw,  also,  houses;  the  fellow  was  leaving 
desolation  behind  him.  Amad  suppressed  the  temp- 
tation to  follow.  Among  these  non-Moslem  peo- 
ple it  would  be  hazardous  to  attempt  to  molest 
the  fellow.     Revenge  would  be  sweet  but  he  was 


A   SURPRISE  331 

old  and  cautious.  The  evil  one  talce  that  zone 
of  safety  for  dogs  of  Christians!  And  Amad 
prayed  inwardly  that  in  that  old,  old  town  of  his, 
there  might  be  a  general  massacre  of  all  foul  un- 
believers. Unfortunately,  it  did  not  seem  as  if 
his  wish  would  come  to  pass.  The  rioting  and  loot- 
ing of  the  night  before  had,  after  all,  been  of  a 
desultory  and  non-sanguinary  character.  No  true 
prophet  of  blood  had  arisen  at  the  opportune  mo- 
ment, as  had  been  the  case  on  other  occasions.  The 
diamond  merchant,  however,  yet  savagely  hoped  for 
the  best — or  the  worst — and  tearing  the  message 
into  a  hundred  bits,  he  turned  back. 

Several  days  later,  he  whom  Amad  had  discerned 
afar,  stood  on  a  hill,  some  distance  to  the  west, 
and  gazed  down  upon  a  little  seaport  town.  His 
look  was  eager,  expectant.  His  quest  was  done,  or 
practically  had  come  to  an  end.  From  this  port  he 
could  take  a  ship  for  anywhere.  He  had  won  his 
wager,  but  he  was  not  thinking  of  that.  His  quick- 
ening gaze  rested  on  the  walls  of  the  solid  old  mis- 
sion buildings,  not  so  far  away.  Bright  spots — 
oranges   in   groves — danced   around   them.     Stan- 


332      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

ton  Hastened  downward  and  his  stride  was  once 
more  vigorous.  The  patriarchal  beard  of  the  ro- 
mance-reciter had  been  discarded.  He  didn't  need 
it  any  longer. 

One  of  the  first  persons  he  met  in  the  town's 
principal  winding  little  street  was  Lord  Fitzgerald, 
on  foot.    Stanton  hailed  him  joyfully. 

"Eh?  What?  Oh!— "  said  his  lordship.  This 
young  American  was  certainly  a  surprise-maker. 

"She  is  here?"  were  his  next  words. 

"Yes."  The  Englishman  nodded  toward  the 
mission  buildings. 

"And  well?"    Eagerly. 

Again  an  affirmative.  Stanton  laughed.  He  ex- 
perienced a  kind  of  somnambulistic  feeling.  What  a 
wonderful  haven  the  town  seemed  after  all  the  little 
vicissitudes  of  the  past.  He  walked  on  hardly  not- 
ing where  he  was  going. 

"Have  any  difficulty  getting  here?"  he  asked,  after 
a  few  moments- 

"No.  Only  once  or  twice  your — the  lady  wanted 
to  jump  out." 

"You — did  not  let  her,  I  hope  ?"    In  quick  alarm. 

"Naturally  not."    Dryly. 


A  SURPRISE  335 

"But  why  should  she  have — ?'*  The  young  man 
began,  then  stopped.  "Unaccustomed  to  cars,  I  sup- 
pose.   Don't  believe  she  ever  saw  one  before." 

"No  doubt  that  was  it,"  observed  Fitzgerald, 
studying  the  eager  intent  face  of  his  companion. 
"The  case  has  quite  puzzled  the  missionaries,"  he 
added. 

"What  case?" 

"Hers." 

"My  wife's?" 

"Hum !"  said  the  Englishman. 

Stanton  turned  on  him.    "Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Are  you  sure  the  lady  is  your  wife?" 

"The  Mohammedan  ceremony  is  as  binding  as 
any  other."  There  was  a  truculent  accent  in  the 
young  man's  tone. 

"Yes,  but  you  are  a  Christian,"  said  Fitzgerald 
with  a  smile. 

"But  the  lady  isn't—" 

"Is,  too." 

"I  beg  your  pardon.*' 

"Is,  too/'    repeated  Fitzgerald. 

"She  has  been  converted  ?" 

"She  never  has  been  a  Mohammedan,  at  all." 


334      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

The  young  man  stared  at  him. 

"When  one  of  the  contracting  parties  is  a  Chris- 
tian, a  Mohammedan  marriage  may  still  be  consid- 
ered binding,"  observed  the  nobleman.  "When  both 
are,  it  is  not  binding.  Therefore,  you  never  were  a 
real  substitute  husband.  You  were  only  an  imita- 
tion imitation-husband.  Your  bride  was  only  an 
imitation  imitation-bride.  A  mustahall  is  only  a 
shadow  of  a  husband.  You" — Fitzgerald  seemed 
to  enjoy  his  own  wit — "were  but  a  shadow  of  a 
shadow." 

The  young  man  stopped.  He  eyed  the  other  sav- 
agely. "Why  don't  you  say  something?"  he  growled. 
"I  don't  like  a  lot  of  words." 

"Has  it  never  occurred  to  you,  yourself,  that  the 
young  lady  might  not  be  a  Mohammedan?"  asked 
the  other. 

"What  do  you  know?  You  have  heard  some- 
thing?   What  is  it?" 

"The  girl's  mother  was  Greek." 

"Greek?    You  are  sure?"    Bewildered. 

"Positive.    Her  father  was  English." 

"I — I  don't  understand."  Here  was  the  opening 
of  a  new  chamber  of  mysteries.    He  strove  to  re* 


A   SURPRISE  335 

adjust  his  ideas  to  new  conditions.  Was  he  pleased, 
glad,  his  wife  was  not  a  Mohammedan?  He  hardly 
knew  at  the  moment.  It  was  the  girl  he  wanted. 
He  had  given  the  subject  of  her  nationality  no 
thought.  She — she  was  all  in  all — everything — 

"But  how?"  he  began. 

"Sshh !"  said  Fitzgerald. 

They  had  reached  a  gate  and  paused  before  it. 
Around  them  were  orange  trees.  Afar  they  saw  a 
figure  passing  in  the  garden.  The  young  man  gave 
a  slight  exclamation.  The  girl  was  dressed  in  Eu- 
ropean costume  and  was  walking  with  an  old  man, 
presumably  the  chief  missionary.  She  did  not  look 
toward  them ;  her  head  was  down-bent ;  the  wonder- 
ful face  seemed  much  paler.  The  two  men  did  not 
move ;  Stanton  scarcely  breathed.  His  burning  gaze 
followed  her  as  she  went  by  on  the*  distant  winding 
walk.  Oh,  the  grace,  the  charm  of  her!  In  that 
garb  he  seemed  to  see  her  anew.  Forgetful  of  all, 
bewildered,  perhaps  a  little  dazed,  he  was  about  to 
spring  forward,  when  the  nobleman  touched  his  arm. 

"Ahem!"  said  Fitzgerald.  "Those — aw! — togs 
are  all  right  in  the  desert,  you  know,  but — " 

Stanton  paused.  The  other  was  right.   His  cloak 


336      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

was  ragged  and  soiled;  sleeping  in  it  had  not  im- 
proved it.  His  face  was  dyed.  He  was  in  a  Chris- 
tian country,  or  a  segment  of  one,  and  he  had  been 
about  to  rush  irresistibly  toward  her — he,  a  vaga- 
bond of  the  desert,  a  scarecrow  for  garments;  he 
might  even  have  been  capable  of  clasping  her  in  his 
arms,  willy-nilly.  Had  that  actually  been  his  im- 
pulse? And  with  those  clothes  stained  with  blood, 
too,  as  if  the  vagabond  had  been  in  some  low  tav- 
ern brawl — 

No,  no ;  Fitzgerald  was  right.  Trust  an  English- 
man for  the  proprieties.  Stanton  laughed.  A 
"bawth" — a  change  of  attire — 

Mechanically  he  followed  his  lordship  on,  past 
the  mission  garden.  He  turned  his  back  on  it — and 
her.  As  he  did  so,  he  felt  a  sudden  chill ;  the  world 
of  convention  once  more  claimed  him ;  he  was  about 
to  become  a  civilized  being.  "Not  his  wife" — and 
never  had  been !  He  experienced  a  dread  premoni- 
tion. Before,  he  might  have  claimed  her;  he  had 
intended  to.    But  now  ?    Uneasiness  seized  his  soul. 


CHAPTER  XXrV 

MARY  CARRUTHERS 

'*  A  S  I  told  you,  on  her  father's  side,  she  is" — 
i  \  Fitzgerald  paused  impressively — "English." 
The  two  now  were  seated  in  the  nobleman's  room 
in  the  one  fairly  pretentious  hotel  the  town  boasted. 
Stanton  had  had  his  "bawth".  He  had  shaved. 
The  first  application  of  a  mild  chemical  wash  had 
partly  removed  the  dye.  Another  application  would 
remove  it  entirely.  In  the  meantime,  his  tall  figure 
enveloped  in  a  voluminous  bathrobe,  he  listened  in- 
tently to  his  host. 

"Her  father  was  from  Devon — good  family," 
the  nobleman  went  on.  He  rather  emphasized  the 
latter  fact  "The  young  lady's  mother,  also,  had  ex- 
cellent connections--excellent !  Blue  blood,  a  bit  of 
property  on  both  sides,  I  fancy."  Fitzgerald's  voice 
trailed  off.  Stanton  stirred  uneasily.  He  hoped  the 
blood  wouldn't  be  too  blue;  that  they  wouldn't  re- 
move her  altogether  from  the  sphere  of  his  hopes. 

337 


338      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

They  couldn't  very  well  make  a  princess  out  of  his 
"wife",  the  way  they  do  in  the  story  books,  unless 
through  her  mother  she  might  inherit — maybe,  she 
would  prove  to  be  a  Lady  Somebody,  or  an  Honor- 
able Miss —  Awful  thought!  She,  a  daughter  of 
romance!  Those  wonderful  deep  dark  poetic  eyes 
belonging  to  an  "Honorable  Miss" — Perish  the  pos- 
sibility !  He  drew  up  his  legs ;  he  hugged  them  with 
strong  sinewy  arms.  Were  the  icy  fingers  of  an  ar- 
tificial civilization  reaching  out  to  grab  her  from 
him,  to  whisk  her  away  from  him  even  as  he  had 
whisked  her  away  from  them?  Irony  of  fortune! 
Perhaps  he  was  too  anxious,  but  something  seemed 
to  point  to  trouble.  Anyway,  he  would  fight  the 
specter — 

"The  father,  like  Byron,  took  a  good  deal  of  In- 
terest in  the  sanguinary  struggles  of  Greece,"  con- 
tinued the  nobleman.  "He  was  a  man  of  rather  soli- 
tary habits  and  a  good  deal  of  a  traveler.  The 
mother  lived  in  a  small  principality  bordering  on  the 
domains  of  the  *sick  man  of  Europe'.  My  country- 
man saw  her,  fell  in  love  with  her — she  must  have 
been  a  very  beautiful  woman — and  married  her. 
For  a  while  they  were  happy.   Then  business  called 


MARY    CARRUTHERS  339 

the  husband  home.  During  his  absence,  a  tragedy 
befell.  The  little  principality  had  long  been  a  seat 
of  intermittent  strife  and  turmoil.  It  still  is,  and 
will  be,  until  the  followers  of  the  prophet  are  driven 
out  of  Europe.  Even  then — "  Fitzgerald  made  a 
cynical  gesture.  "In  some  localities  war  becomes  a 
habit.  But  to  return: 

"During  the  husband's  absence,  the  Turks,  half 
brigands,  half  soldiers,  made  one  of  their  periodical 
descents.  They  looted,  pillaged  and  killed  in  the 
usual  manner.  The  girl's  mother,  among  those 
spared,  on  account  of  her  beauty,  was  carried  off. 

"But  the  husband?"  Stanton's  eyes  sparkled. 
"Did  he  make  no  move?  Did  he  not  move  heaven 
and  earth  to — " 

"He  would,  no  doubt,  have  done  so,  but,  unfor- 
tunately, just  at  this  time,  he  was  himself  stricken 
down  in  London.  An  old  trouble,  I  understand. 
Was  taken  to  a  hospital  and  died  there.  Exact  de- 
tails are  hard  to  get  at.  Remember  this  happened 
long  ago.  He  may  never  have  learned  what  befell 
his  wife.  Home  office,  too,  may  never  have  known. 
Outrages  of  this  kind  were  frequent.  The  mother 
may  have  been  reported  dead. 


340      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  not  slain,  but  car- 
ried to  a  fanatical  Moslem  center  and  thereafter  was 
lost  to  the  world.  Nothing  so  uncommon  in  that." 
Stanton  nodded.  He  was  intensely  interested. 
"Shortly  after  her  captivity,  the  mother  gave  birth 
to  a  child.  Later,  to  avoid  being  sold  into  the  posi- 
tive slavery  which,  as  you  and  I  know,  existed 
then,  the  mother  became  the  wife  of  a  Mussulman. 
Apparently  he  was  not  a  bad  sort  of  chap  for  his 
kind.  Anyhow  he  seems  to  have  been  generous 
enough  to  his  Christian  wife.  Presented  her  with  a 
fine  house  in  Damascus,  don't  you  know." 

Stanton  did  know.  "Yes;  I've  been  there."  He 
spoke  absently. 

"Have,  eh  ?"  His  lordship  eyed  him  sharply.  The 
young  man's  attention,  for  an  instant,  was  out  of  the 
window.  It  was  immediately  recalled.  "Odd  how 
some  of  those  Moslem  fellows  do  take  to  their  Chris- 
tiari  wives,"  resumed  Fitzgerald.  "The  big  Mogul 
of  India,  for  example,  was  inordinately  fond  of  his. 
About  the  time  of  the  marriage,  or  shortly  after,  the 
child,  by  the  English  father,  was  placed  in  a  mission. 
Just  how  this  came  about  is  somewhat  a  matter  of 
conjecture.    Perhaps  the  mother  stipulated  it  as  a 


MARY   CARRUTHERS  341 

condition  and  he  agreed.  Possibly  it  secretly  pleased 
him  to  dispense  with  this  reminder  of  the  past.  The 
mother,  though  yielding  to  the  inevitable,  herself, 
may  have  welcomed  the  chance  to  restore  the  child 
to  a  civilization  where  she  belonged.  At  any  rate,  a 
member  of  a  caravan  brought  her  here.  An  old 
preacher — ^you  saw  him  to-day — then  connected 
with  the  mission,  thinks  he  remembers  an  old  camel 
man,  white-bearded,  venerable,  asking  for  some  pa- 
per that  vouched  for  the  child's  safe  delivery.  One 
can  fancy  the  mother,  far,  far  away,  a  prisoner,  if 
you  will,  though  a  wife,  waiting  for  that  paper — ■ 
her  heart  torn,  yet  thankful,  wafting  prayers  across 
distance.  There's  a  situation  for  you." 

Fitzgerald  paused.  Stanton's  mind  was  making 
pictures.  The  white-bearded  camel  man,  the  child, 
the  camels — ^he  could  see  them  winding  over  sandy 
places,  the  long  shadows  of  the  great  ungainly 
beasts,  the  little  one  nestling,  perhaps,  as  a  snow- 
flake  on  a  broad  breast,  beneath  a  venerable  beard — 
on — on — rhythmically  on — the  child,  wonderful, 
beautiful — now  lisping  beneath  the  somber  shadow 
of  those  great  trees  whereof  the  temple  of  Solomon 
was  builded,  heedless  of  destination — minding  not 


342      ALADDIN   FROM    BROADWAY 

the  whither,  the  how,  the  where  ? — a  mite  in  a  great 
caravan — ^big-eyed,  smiling  confidently  into  swarthy 
faces — 

"After  the  mother  died" — Fitzgerald  had  plunged 
again  into  the  narrative — "the  Mohammedan  hus- 
band took  unto  himself  a  second  favorite,  or  princi- 
pal wife,  Light  of  Life.  Now  comes  another  epoch 
in  the  child's  life.  The  old  preacher  remembers  some 
one  presenting  a  paper  for  the  child.  He  doesn't  re- 
member very  vividly,  for  he  is  getting  old  and  ab- 
sent-minded. Has  worked  in  many  missions  so  very, 
very  long!  The  old  missionary  was  not  satisfied  to 
give  her  up,  however,  and  later  she  was  removed 
surreptitiously — smuggled  away — " 

"But  why  should  they — Light  of  Life  have 
wanted — "  began  Stanton. 

"Her  back?  There  are  several  reasons.  More 
conjecture!  The  girl  was  beautiful.  The  step- 
mother may  have  been  avaricious — " 

"May  have  been!"  From  the  young  man,  sotto 
voce. 

"She  may  have  planned  to  sell  her  in  marriage  to 
some  benign  old  Mussulman  of  means." 

"No  doubt  that  was  it!" 


MARY   CARRUTHERS  343 

"Also,  Light  of  Life  may  have  been  most  devout, 
a  fanatic.  In  rescuing  the  child  from  the  dogs  of 
Christians  and  their  pernicious  influence,  she  was 
performing  a  service  to  Allah.  The  missions  did 
what  they  could  to  find  some  trace  of  her  but  without 
success.    Light  of  Life  saw  to  that." 

"Light  of  Life!"  Stanton  murmured  something 
softly  in  Arabic.  It  was  not  a  blessing  on  the  head 
of  his  ex-stepmother-in-law. 

"And  the  English  father — ^how  did  you  find  out 
about—?" 

"From  a  few  old  pieces  of  jewelry.  The  young 
lady  brought  them  away  with  her.  Perhaps  you  did 
not  know  she  was  the  possessor  of  several  fine  ex- 
amples of  the  goldsmith's  art?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  did."  Dryly.  "Didn't  she  try  to  bribe 
me  with  them  once?"  Stanton's  eyes  became  half 
whimsical,  half  tender. 

"Bribe?    For  what?" 

"Never  mind." 

"Man  of  mystery!"  laughed  the  nobleman.  "Evi- 
dently you  did  not  examine  the  pieces  very  closely." 

"I  did  not." 

"That  you  should  have  done,  my  good  and  incor- 


344      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

ruptible  friend.  Had  you  done  so,  you  would  have 
discovered  on  one  or  two  of  them  certain  marks — 
old  tracings  of  a  coat  of  arms — English.  Knew  it 
very  well.  Questioned  the  young  lady.  Seems  there 
is  a  caretaker  and  his  wife.  Christians  themselves, 
who  were  devoted  to  her  mother.  The  latter,  just 
before  she  died,  gave  these  old  trinkets  to  them,  to 
keep  for  the  child.  This  service  they  faithfully  per- 
formed. When  she  showed  them  to  me  I  began  to 
wonder.  Happened  to  know  something  of  the 
father's  family.  Used  cable.  Kept  the  wires  siz- 
zling as  you  Americans  say.  You  know  the  result. 
Verified  all  the  facts.  Traced  record  of  marriage, 
too.  How'd  she  happen  to  show  me  the  jewelry? 
Oh,  she  didn't  try  to  bribe  me.  No  such  luck !  Not 
so  sure  I'd  be  so  incorruptible.  Truth  is,  well,  you 
know,  the  lady  had  some  vague  ideas  about  the  wolf 
at  the  door,  between  ideas  about  something  else  that 
might,  or  might  not  have  happened  at  Damascus, 
and,  chafing  aside,  she  felt  impelled  to — you  un- 
derstand ?  Didn't  want  to  be  a  burden  on  the  mis- 
sion folks.  No  danger  of  that  now,"  the  nobleman 
added.  "She  can  get  along  nicely — ^yery  nicely,  in- 
deed 1" 


MARY   CARRUTHERS  345 

The  other  did  not  pursue  the  subject.  "She  knows 
all  this  ?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"She  does." 

"What'&— "  Stanton  swallowed— "What's  her 
name?"  Fancy  having  to  ask  the  name  of  one 
whom  once  you  fondly  imagined  was  your  wife! 

"Mary  Carruthers." 

"Carruthers?  Miss  Carruthers."  Stanton  re- 
peated the  name  like  a  child  in  the  first  grade  say- 
ing his  letters.  "Mary  Carruthers — "  It  wasn't  a 
bad  name.  In  fact  it  was  a  very  nice  name.  But  it 
was  like  getting  acquainted  with  her  all  over  again. 
He  sighed.  Then  he  brightened.  Allah  be  praised 
she  was  not  an  Honorable  Miss  Anybody.  He  had 
been  spared  that.  He  felt  confused,  however.  He 
couldn't  help  it.  He  had  felt  that  way  before,  only 
this  was  a  new  variety  of  the  mixed-up  feeling. 
Maybe,  he  would  have  to  ask  somebody  for  her 
hand.  There  might  appear  a  brand-new  lot  of  rela- 
tives and  meddlers  and  people  who  advise.  Some- 
times these  people  talk  of  "grand  matches,"  or  de- 
sirable matches.  "Desirable?"  That  was  the  word. 
Was  he  desirable?  Some  of  that  fanciful  batch  of 
new  relatives  might  have  doubts.     There  might  be 


346      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

an  Anglo-Saxon  Light  of  Life  among  them — a  reg- 
ular terror.  His  heart  sank.  He  could  imagine  as 
many  obstacles  as  a  timorous  boy  sees  bogy  faces 
on  tree  trunks  in  a  forest  at  dusk  time. 

"Sure  you  aren't  a  romance-reciter?"  he  said 
gruffly  to  the  nobleman. 

"I  haven't  the  talent,"  answered  that  person.  "I 
leave  the  job  to  you." 

"Humph!" 

Fitzgerald  eyed  him  with  mild  inquiry.  The 
young  man  did  not  seem  so  pleased  as  he  ought  to 
be.    Perhaps  because  he  had  lost  that  wager — 

"Here's  the  prayer-book,"  Stanton  said  bruskly, 
at  that  moment. 

"The  little  Mecca  souvenir  ?"  It  was  Fitzgerald's 
turn  to  be  surprised. 

"Yes."  Indifferently. 

**But  I  thought — you  said  you  lost  it." 

"Did."    Laconically.     "But  got  it  again." 

"I  congratulate  you."  The  nobleman  was  gen- 
erous. 

"Thanks."    With  no  enthusiasm. 

"You  win." 

"Do  I?"   Stanton  knew  well  enough  he  had  won 


MARY   CARRUTHERS  347 

the  wager.  But  he  wondered  if  he  would  ever 
win  ? — 

"You  deserve  success,  old  man,"  said  Fitzgerald 
warmly. 

"Thanks !"  Again.  The  young  man  was  now  rub- 
bing the  chemical  "wash"  once  more  on  his  face 
and  shoulders.  "Hang  this  stuff!  It  works  slowly." 
He  would  be  indoors  a  long  time  at  this  rate.  He 
would  have  to  stay  in — he  couldn't  go  out  half  reii- 
ovated.    He  was  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other. 

"Maybe  if  you  put  it  on  a  little  stronger?"  sug- 
gested Fitzgerald  sympathetically. 

"And  get  skinned  ?"  scoffed  the  young  man.  "No, 
thank  you,"  he  grumbled. 

"Patience,  then,"  counseled  the  other. 

Stanton's  reply  was  inaudible. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE   MISSION   GARDENS 

SOME  time  later,  he  strode  forth.  He  wore 
European  clothes.  They  didn't  fit  very  well, 
but  they  were  the  best  that  could  be  procured.  He 
had  had  the  hotel  proprietor  send  out  for  them. 
After  the  loose  flowing,  if  sometimes  disreputable, 
garb  he  had  been  accustomed  to  so  long,  these  gar- 
ments seemed  stiff  and  uncomfortable.  But  he  car- 
ried them  well.  "If  only  I  could  get  in  touch  with 
a  real  live  American  tailor!"  he  said  to  himself 
yearningly.  He  longed  for  that  subtle  cut,  which 
only  the  "artists"  of  his  native  land  can  impart. 
He  felt  he  wasn't  doing  justice  to  himself  in  these 
duds.  He  wasn't  at  all  like  the  picturesque  bride- 
groom who  had  invaded  her  courtyard.  He  was 
different  and  she  was  different.  Would  everything 
else  be  different  ? 

He  again  reached  the  mission  gardens  and  walked 
through   the   gate.    But   he  walked   slower  now. 

348 


THE   MISSION   GARDENS  349 

What  ?  Timid  ?  Like  a  young  man  who  has  to  force 
himself  to  call  upon  the  adored  object  of  his  bashful 
fancy.  Stanton  frowned.  Of  course  he  felt  as  bold 
as  a  lion.  It  was  only  these  clothes  that  bothered 
him — ^that  made  him  feel  strange.  They  must  have 
been  cut  by  a  sheep-shearer,  he  grumbled  to  himself. 
And  that  hat?  He  took  it  off  and  surveyed  it  scorn- 
fully. One  of  those  English  lids  that  are  im- 
ported by  the  hundreds  to  the  seaport  towns  of 
the  world,  for  natives  and  poor  exiles!  All  this 
time,  he  hadn't  progressed  very  far  in  the  gar- 
den. His  heart  was  pounding  furiously.  He  had 
never  known  it  to  cut  up  so  before.  His  stiff  shirt 
— ^hadn't  worn  one  for  months! — creaked  and  he 
didn't  seem  to  have  room  enough  for  deep  breathing. 
He  paused  to  readjust  himself. 

He? — unsophisticated? — hesitating?  Why,  hadn't 
he  taken  her  in  his  arms — yes,  in  his  arms — that 
evening  at  the  casement,  and  hadn't  he? — yes,  he 
had.  Stanton  flushed  slightly.  He  hadn't  hesitated 
then.  No  one  could  have  been  bolder.  But  this 
wasn't  quite  like —  Those  confounded  mission  walls 
were  so  solid-looking  and  conventional!  He  would 
have  to  go  up  to  them  and  knock  on  the  door.    He 


350      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

would  say:  "Is  Miss  Carruthers  In?"  It  would 
seem  almost  like  asking  for  a  stranger.  And  then 
once  inside  with  his  very  soul  pinched  by  four 
eminently  conventional  walls,  he  or  she  would  say : 
"So  glad  to  see  you!  You  are  well,  I  trust?"  Fol- 
lowing which  would  come  introductions  to  the  very 
worthy  people,  her  friends,  and  a  nice  conventional 
conversation — platitudinous,  more  or  less  sprightly, 
maybe — instructive,  perhaps — 

But  the  situation  had  to  be  met.  He  went  on. 
Creak!  creak!  That  shirt  was  certainly  starched 
hard  as  a  board  all  over.  Hang  native  laundries! 
And  the  hat  pinched  his  head.  He  missed  the  soft 
caressing  folds  of  the  head-covering  of  the  wild 
people  of  the  desert.  His  head  felt  light  without 
the  turban.  Perhaps  he  was  a  bit  light-headed.  He 
was  going  to  see  her.  He  reiterated  it.  He  began 
now  to  forget  everything  else.  Doubts  and  mis- 
givings suddenly  evaporated.  The  single,  bald,  im- 
portant fact  expanded  and  filled  his  being.  He  was 
going  to  see  her — soon — now — 

Yes ;  now !     For  she  had  come  out     Allah  be 
praised,  she  was  alone.    She  came  toward  him ;  she  _ 
saw  him.  The  dimming  day  softened  any  differences 


THE   MISSION   GARDENS  351 

in  him.  His  eyes,  his  expression  though — that  last 
was  not  different;  she  must  remember  that  look. 
Burning,  admiring! —  He  stood  as  first  he  had  be- 
fore her,  when  the  sight  of  her  face,  in  front  of  the 
pastry-shop,  had  awakened  the  fiery  poet  in  him. 
Something  in  him  had  called  out  to  her  then,  as 
voices  call  from  a  tower  at  prayer  time.  Then  and 
now — ^that  past  and  this  present  seemed  one — they 
were  one.  He  started  toward  her  impetuously,  but 
stopped.  None  of  that  now — that  old  manner! 
He  mustn't  forget. 

"Miss  Carruthers — "  he  began.  It  seemed  rather 
absurd,  but  how  else  could  he  address  her?  His 
voice  had  a  lugubriously  formal  sound.  The  girl 
gave  him  her  hand  quickly,  and  he  clasped  it  eagerly. 
Nothing  formal  about  that  clasp  of  his !  Her  hand 
was  delightfully  soft  and  warm.  It  imparted  a  glow 
all  over  him.  Then  somehow  he  managed  to  release 
the  hand,  though  it  required  a  heroic  effort.  He 
felt  he  was  practising  enormous  self-denial.  He 
looked  at  her,  maybe  not  so  conventionally  as  he 
imagined. 

"I — we  are  so  glad.  Lord  Fitzgerald  sent  me 
word  you  were  here." 


352      ALADDIN   FROM   BROADWAY 

"Yes,  got  in  to-day/*  He  spoke  as  if  he  had  ar- 
rived in  the  most  conventional  manner.  In  a  Pull- 
man, perhaps. 

"He  told  me,  too,  how  you  managed  to  get  out 
of  Damascus." 

"No  trick  at  all,"  he  answered. 

She  looked  at  him.  "Won't — won't  you  sit 
down  ?"  A  constraint  seemed  abruptly  to  have  de- 
scended between  them.  "Or,  would  you  rather  go 
into  the  house  ?" 

"I  would  not  rather  go  into  the  house,"  he  re- 
turned emphatically.  "I  mean" — in  answer  to  a 
somewhat  surprised  glance — "it  is  very  pleasant  out 
here,  isn't  it  ?  And  we  have  so  much  to  say !"  He 
hadn't  quite  meant  that  last,  or,  at  least,  to  put  it 
just  that  way. 

They  found  themselves  on  the  bench,  but  for  one 
who  had  so  much  to  say,  he  was  strangely  quiet.  It 
was  not  easy  to  adjust  himself  to  the  new  conditions. 
He  looked  at  the  European  dress.  She  certainly 
looked  well  in  it,  though.  So  graceful! — so  slender! 
— with  those  sweetly  delicate  curves — 

"Yes,  no  trick  at  all!"  he  said,  for  want  of  some- 
thing better  to  say.  "You — you  are  comfortable 
here?" 


THE    MISSION    GARDENS  353 

"Most." 

"Looks  like  a  nice  place." 

"It  is." 

They  had  lapsed  into  the  conventional.  It  seemed 
inevitable — a  part  of  that  process  of  readjust- 
ing, or  finding  themselves  anew.  He  was  just  like 
any  other  young  man  who  might  call  upon  her. 
He  didn't  like  it.  He  frowned.  Then  he  half 
sighed.  Was  this  the  end — ^the  very  end?  Had  he 
only  been  nourishing  a  mirage  in  his  breast?  Of 
course,  she  was  friendly — very.  No  denying  that. 
He  regarded  her  furtively,  while  a  period  of  silence 
ensued.  "Much  to  say!"  What  a  joke!  Doubts 
began  to  pop  into  his  mind,  numerically  as  many  as 
the  stars  in  the  heavens.  How  self-possessed  she 
was — and  tranquil.  Ominously  sol  He  couldn't 
even  think  of  platitudes  now.  He  had  asked  if  she 
liked  it  here,  if  she  was  comfortable.  What  else 
remained  to  be  said?    He  looked  around. 

"I  suppose  you  will  be  going  to  England  soon  ?" 

"I  suppose  so.  We — I  have  hardly  made  any  plans 
yet." 

"Permit  me  to  congratulate  you  on  the  felicitous 
turn  of  your  fortunes,"  he  observed.  "I  am  glad 
— very  glad." 


354      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

"Thank  you."  Simply.  And  then— "I~I  do 
thank  you  so  much  for  all — " 

"Don't !"  He  waved  his  hand.  She  was  going  to 
profess  gratitude  for  the  little  bit — the  very  little  he 
had  done  for  her.  He  had  a  very  hungy  feeling.  It 
was  not  her  gratitude  he  wanted,  but  more — more — 
He  clasped  and  unclasped  his  strong  fingers,  looking 
straight  before  him.  Their  conversation  seemed 
doomed  to  be  punctuated  with  long  silences. 

"We — I  went  every  day  to  the  caravansaries  to 
inquire  about  you,"  the  girl  said  after  an  interval. 

"That  was  very  kind  of  you." 

"We  hoped  to  hear  from  some  of  the  camel  men 
that  you  were  safe." 

Another  perfunctory  acknowledgment ! 

"And  then  we  heard  nothing — nothing — " 

Was  there  a  slight  catch  in  Mary  Carruthers' 
voice?  He  must  be  mistaken.  The  wish  was  father 
to  the  thought 

"Yes;  news  doesn't  travel  very  fast  over  here," 
observed  the  young  man.  Then  he  crossed  the  other 
leg. 

She  looked  at  him.  His  face  was  handsome,  but 
somber.   He  was  reflecting.   That  lion-like  boldness 


THE    MISSION    GARDENS  355 

he  had  attempted  to  assume  had  once  more  deserted 
him.  In  her  actual  presence  modesty  seemed  some- 
how the  more  fitting  garment.  What  an  irony  of 
fate  that  he  should  be  made  to  feel  thus,  now  when 
he  had  her  all  to  himself.  No  menacing  hands 
reached  out  toward  him.  No  daggers  flashed  in  the 
air.  He  didn't  have  to  say  something  and  then 
jump  and  run.  The  conditions  ought  to  be  propitious, 
as  the  astrologers  say — only  they  weren't.  He 
crossed  the  other  leg.  The  world  was  awry.  He 
might  be  sitting  in  Central  Park  with  an  almost 
strange  young  lady.  Or  in  Regents'  Park.  This 
last  as  a  concession  to  her  ancestry  on  her  father's 
side!  They  seemed  drifting  farther  and  farther 
away. 

It  was  the  silence  now  that  was  punctuated  with 
talk — brief  remarks.  He  became  moody,  but  what 
tranquillity  now  was  Mary  Carruthers'!  He  won- 
dered if  she  didn't  feel  anything.  Yet  she  looked 
as  if  she  could  feel.  What  were  those  wonder- 
ful deep,  dark  eyes  given  to  her  for?  Perhaps 
those  eyes  would  shine  on  some  other  fellow  some- 
where— when  she  had  taken  her  place  in  the  world 
to  which  she  belonged.  He  would  be  but  an  incident 


356      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

in  that  other  life  of  hers — that  more  disagreeable 
one  which  she  would  like  to  forget.  Perhaps  she 
would  be  able  to  forget  it,  and  him.  And  he  would 
gradually  and  gradually  fade  away  like  dissolving 
mist,  until — 

"Know  my  name?"  he  asked  suddenly.  He  ex- 
perienced a  weird  sensation  of  jocularity  as  he  spoke. 

"Of  course!"  Again  with  slight  surprise.  No 
doubt,  she  thought  his  manner  rather  strange.  She 
couldn't  see  down  into  the  depths — that  gloomy, 
dark,  black  de  profundis  of  a  lover's  soul. 

Of  course !  His  question  had  been  rather  foolish. 
She  had  heard  his  name  at  Damascus  when  they  had 
met  Fitzgerald.  And  she  probably  had  heard  it  once 
or  twice  since — 

"Prove  it!"  He  experienced  anew  that  abrupt 
sensation  of  unreasonable  frivolity.  Maybe,  he  just 
wanted  to  hear  her  say  it.  "Prove  it!"  he  chal- 
lenged her. 

"Mr.  Jack  Stanton,"  said  the  girl  readily. 

"Mister?"  he  scoffed  recklessly.  "Among  old 
friends  ?  In  my  country,  old  friends  call  each  other 
by  first  names.  It's  Tom,  Dick,  Harry,  or — Say 
'Jack'." 


THE   MISSION   GARDENS  357 

She  did  so  at  once,  willingly.    "J^ck." 

He  let  the  word  sink  in.  He  seemed  to  like  to 
hear  the  sound  of  his  own  name  immensely — on  her 
lips.  He  gazed  at  her  rapturously.  Then  he  re- 
membered and  gazed  away.  Then  he  looked  at  her 
once  more.  Then  he  said  quite  abruptly  and  unex- 
pectedly:    "Mary,  I  love  you." 

He  was  quite  surprised  at  himself.  He  hadn't 
expected  to  say  it  just  then,  or  like  that  Why,  his 
tone  was  hardly  tender. 

A  longer  silence  than  ever — a  most  portentous 
one — ^brimming  with  catastrophes !  Miss  Carruthers 
did  not  look  at  him  now.  He  saw  only  part  of  that 
lovely  profile.  Now  when  a  woman  or  girl  turns 
away? — The  very  poise  of  her  head  seemed  to  spell 
tragedy  for  him.  The  impression  grew  and  grew. 
He  arose. 

"You — you  are  going?"  said  the  girl  quickly. 
There  was  a  catch  in  her  voice,  by  Allah-! 

"No,"  he  said  suddenly.  For  the  fraction  of  a 
second  he  had  caught  the  look  in  her  eyes.  He 
would  never  leave  her  now.    Of  that,  he  was  sure. 

"Mary!" 

She,  too,  had  arisen,  and  he  caught  her  to  him. 

"Mary!" 


358      ALADDIN    FROM    BROADWAY 

The  breeze,  in  the  orange  trees,  sang  of  orange- 
flowers. 

"We'll  have  a  Christian  wedding,  this  time." 

"And  a  wedding  ring!"  laughed  the  pale  dark 
princess  of  his  dreams.  "That  is,  if  a  beggar  can 
afford  a—?" 

"Rather.  And  the  bride'll  be  there.  Fancy  that!" 
Ecstatically.  "A  wedding  with  the  bride  present! 
And  a  real  honeymoon  afterward.  A  real  one!" 
The  thought  was  almost  too  exhilarating.  He  turned 
to  her. 

And  what  followed  was  just  like  any  other  love 
scene. 


THE  END 


Eo^E.7^ 


SsJJ 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000  806  473     5 


